


Ghost of the 'Graves

by Birdie Blue (calamitywritesstuff)



Series: For the Greatest Good [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Dalish, Dorks in Love, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fade Dream(s), Falling In Love, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Love Triangles, Multiple Pairings, Orlais, POV Multiple, Retelling, The Conclave, Unrequited Love, slow burn Solas/Lavellan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3822790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calamitywritesstuff/pseuds/Birdie%20Blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas, a mysterious apostate has heard rumours that someone walked out of the explosion at the conclave alive. Not just of the Temple, but of the Fade itself. Solas can't help but need to know who it was, and why of all those present, they were the only survivor. </p><p>Yet, when he does, Solas finds out that the Survivor is not what he expected, and nothing he could have prepared for...</p><p>**</p><p>Cullen Rutherford isn't proud of who he is, and he hates who he used to be. The Inquisition was meant to be his way to atone, to set things right. Struggling with his addiction and mounting pressures of a growing army, he's caught off guard when he meets the Herald. She's ruthless, efficient, but when he catches a glimpse of how tenuous her confidence is, he finds a mirror to himself. Hopefully, more.</p><p>** </p><p>Milliara Lavellan is not what Thedas expected in a hero: she's not Andrastian, not a warden, not a good person. But Thedas doesn't seem to care, leaving her labelled the Herald of a God she doesn't believe in. </p><p>Milliara can only hope Corypheus doesn't find out what she's hiding. If he does, he could use it to bring her to her knees... and Thedas with her...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fever Dreams

The rumours had ripped through the makeshift camp. There was a  _survivor_ from the explosion at the Conclave. First it was the Divine, who had parted the sky and stepped from it with Andraste’s help. But as the Apostate made his way towards the Seeker and the dwarf, he heard more rumours. Each rumor was both  a little less and a little more fantastic than the last.

 It wasn’t the Divine, it was an  _elf_.

 An elf, who had survived and walked out from the hole in the sky.

 A Dalish elf who had walked from the fade itself, with a glowing mark on her hand.

 Solas frowned, stepping around a troop of infantry that jogged past him, towards the rift. To their credit, while they looked terrified, they were running in the correct direction. He had no doubts that it was due to the Commander who was ahead. The man had his troops ready for battle before the Temple’s detonation had finished echoing in the mountains.

 “Commander Rutherford,” Solas said, weaving through the hastily built base of operations. Already the wounded were returning from the front lines, but the numbers were pitifully small. Far more were falling to the demons that were spewing continuously out of the rift.  It was a losing battle.

 “Yes?” Rutherford asked, not looking up from the latest report he’d been handed. He frowned, nose pink with cold, and brown eyes already tired. “Sargeant Tomasin, take the 5th and provide support on the main front.” Only then did he glance up from his notes. The frown deepened.  “What is it?”

 “Do you know where they brought the survivor?” Solas asked. “I believe I can help figure out what happened.”

 “Scout Phira, you saw them bring her in. Please escort the Apostate to her” The commander gestured to one of his aides who stood at his side.  “If you’ll excuse me.” Without waiting for an answer, the commander strode away towards the latest arrival of wounded. 

 “I can show to you her, ser,” she said with a quick nod. “They’ve taken her to the Seeker, though from what I saw, I’m not sure how much you’ll be able to help.”

 “You saw her?” Solas asked. “This mark they say-“

 “On her hand? Aye, saw it myself. Glowing the same way that it,” the scout said, pointing up at the hole in the sky. “It was glowing so bright I couldn’t hardly look at it.”

 Solas followed in silence until they reached a  small guard post. Outside, flanked by heavily armed guards, the Seeker was yelling at the Dwarf. Again.

 “-no, absolutely not. You are free to go. So please,  _go.”_

 “Go… towards the rift?” Varric’s voice was gravel on granite, the balance to the Seeker’s cultured accent. “Excellent idea, Seeker.”

 “I hope that I’m not interrupting anything,” Solas said, politely ignoring the hand Cassandra had put to the bridge of her nose. He equally ignored the grin the dwarf shot his way.

 “No, of course not,” she said with a grunt. “The dwarf was just leaving.”

 “Nah, I think I’ll stay now,” Varric said with a chuckle. “Looks like thing are about to get interesting.”

 “I believe I can be of service, if you’ll let me,” Solas said with a respectful nod towards the Seeker. He was sure that he could hear the woman grinding her teeth. “With the survivor, one of the scouts mentioned that she had a mark that resembled the rift?” He glanced to his side, but Scout Phira had already left. Perhaps scared off by the Seeker’s temper.

 “She’s not waking up,” Cassandra said. “We’ve tried everything we can think of. If you have an idea, you are welcome to try it.” She stepped aside and gestured to the door in what was no doubt supposed to be a mocking manner.

 “I shall,” Solas said.  “Thank you.”

 ***

 The room was cold, lit entirely in an eerie green that was quickly becoming familiar. In the centre of the room was a small figure, slight and in tattered armor, the elf seemed far too delicate to have survived the blast that she had. Let alone the Fade…

 Solas’s determination faltered as he approached the dalish woman. Her expression was tight and her breaths shallow and far too quick. Solas watched as a bead of feverish sweat rolled down a line of ink that someone had etched onto her skin.

 “What’s wrong chuckles?” Varric asked, heavy footfalls announcing his approach.

 “I’m surprised she’s still alive,” Solas said. But it was more than that. “Please, don’t interrupt me. I’ll do what I can to help her.” He wasn’t sure why yet. Maybe it was the look of pain on her face, or the fact that she had walked out of sure destruction… or that he needed to know what had happened. What had gone so wrong at the Conclave?

 “I need a bowl of hot water, and fresh elfroot if you have any. The fresher the better,” he said to the dwarf. “Hurry.”

 “You got it. I’ll keep the seeker out of your… hair…”

 Another day, and Solas would have frowned, but he was too entranced with the way the green light pulsed. In time with her breathing, he realised.

 “Who are you?” he asked quietly, kneeling next to her and gently lifting her hand. Her skin was so hot, uncomfortable to touch for any length of time. He brushed fingertips over her palm, hesitating just at the edge of the mark. It was so bright, just like Scout Phira had said.

 “Who are you to survive this?” He whispered, looking over as the elf groaned. He could see her eyes flicking back and forth under her lids. She was young, but scars marked her skin just as much as the vallaslin had. A tiny line on her cheek would dimple it, a trio of lines cut down her neck. Peeking from the edge of her hairline, a line of skin shiny and new cut through lines of ink to touch her brow.

 He reached out to touch it, following it up gently to her hairline. Solas lay next to her on the cold stone floor. It smelled of dirt and must… and forest.

No, that last one, that was  _her_. Whoever  _she_  was.

He folded his hands around hers. Around the Marked one. Then he closed his eyes.

***

The Fade kept shifting under his feet, thick snow melted into a carpet of green moss that drifted away as sand in the breeze.

Ahead, through the rapidly changing snow-sleet-sand, he could see her lit all in green. The mark was both pulled the weather tighter around her and pushed it back, creating a maelstrom that raged around her as she walked. This close to the Rift, even dreaming would be difficult. For a woman fighting to survive the mark the Fade had left on her, it could be deadly.

Solas knew wouldn’t be able to get near to her without risking his own safety. That would hardly help her, and it would risk losing precious information about what she had seen, what she had lived through. He circled around her storm, lighting markers of veilfire  as he went. They fluttered and battered in the storm, but they stayed lit.

The winds began to ease.  He left familiar paintings in fire. Paintings of a hunt, of a Clan of Dalish, of the Dalish gods.  Leading her to an area of the fade far less turbulent, he left a larger column of veilfire for her.  Here the fade looked like a valley of pristine snow, a small tent waited for her, sheltered by trees from the wind.

Spirits hung about, curious to see who… _what_  was coming.

Solas eased back into the darkness. Watching next to the spirits. She’d followed him as he’d hoped, quicker than he’d expected. He was sure, the further that he’d drawn her, he was sure that a demon would snare her. That a spirit would curl it’s influence too tightly into her.

But here she was, walking up to the green bonfire he’d left her.

It was his first clear view of her since he’d slipped into the fade after her. Her silver hair drifted around her shoulders, caught by winter winds. Her hand, still marked, glowed as bright as the fire he’d made for her, if not brighter. It caught the snow, reaching out to where he stood.

“Who-“ She whispered, turning towards him.

***

Solas sat up, a hand to his head.

She’d nearly- She shouldn’t have been able to do that. She should have had a harder time following him. Should have struggled harder with the spirits that clamoured around her. Should have died in the blast at the temple.

But, as he looked down at her, there she was. The tension of her face had eased, the sweat lessened and she shifted with a groan.

“Made a new friend?” Varric asked, and Solas looked up quickly, pulling his hands away from the woman’s.

“I believe,” Solas said, getting up and dusting himself off, “That she is now stable. You best get the Seeker before she wakes up.”

Varric lifted his eyebrows.

“The seeker? Me? I’d rather go fight the demons out there,” he said, jabbing a thumb towards the door.

Solas thought about that for a moment, and glanced down at the woman a last time. He’d rather not be there when she woke. Later, he’d ask her the questions he needed answers for… but right now he found himself unwilling to see if she’d recognize him from the fade.

“I think,” he said, “That sounds like a good idea. Let the guards get the Seeker. I’m sure the Commander could use some help out on the field.”


	2. Seeking Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The survivor's finally woken up. 
> 
> Seeker Pentaghast isn't the only one with questions for her. Solas finds himself needing to know how she survived... and who she is. But does she know who she is?
> 
> ~1130 words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening: Bones by MS MR

“Somehow, I thought that leaving Kirkwall meant I wouldn’t be fighting weird things all the time,” Varric said, the hiss of his crossbow punctuating his statement, and puncturing the shade that had been creeping up on the Apostate’s left. It hissed, clawing at the bolt that now stuck out of its chest.

“But nooo, instead a temple blows up and these _things_ start climbing out of the sky.”

Solas swung his staff up, sending a blast of energy into the shade’s face. It crumpled inward, dissolving into dust.

“It is quite odd, isn’t it?” Solas said. He turned to face the next shade, nearly on top of them both. It lifted its claws, rearing up with a rattle. Solas grit his teeth, gathering the energy he’d need to freeze it in place. This one was larger than the others had been, the newest to climb out of the small rift they were defending against.

As he felt the air crystalize at his fingertips, Solas caught a glint of steel in the air above the Shade’s bulk. Twin flashes of steel bit into the neck of the monster, sending sprays of dark blood up into the air… where they splattered against a pale elf.

Solas stared, sure that time itself had slowed.  The face he had seen so twisted in pain earlier that day was now so very alive, flushed under the purple tattoo and dark blood. Her grip adjusted on the knives she had buried into the shade’s back, lips peeling into a grimace of effort as she yanked the blades out to either side.

The monster gurgled, collapsing down to the frozen ground by Solas’s feet. The woman stood, stepping off her disintegrating kill, and looked at him for the second time that day.  Nearly as tall as he was, her silver hair was matted with blood and ashes, the braids he’d seen were now dreadlocks of dirt and mud from the melted snow.

But that was all secondary to the deep violet eyes that stopped on him, lingering just long enough to make him wonder if she _had_ seen his face in the fade. If she remembered him. He swallowed and turned to the cluster of green crystal that hung in the sky. Her eyes were too old, too jaded, for who he thought she’d be.

_Who was she?_

Above them, the crystals crumpled into themselves, revealing the tear in reality. The pure energy that radiated from it made the hairs on Solas’s arms stand on end.

“What is it?” she asked. Her voice was quiet and raw. 

“A rift, a tear in the fade like the larger one in the sky,” Solas said. He hesitated a moment before he reached out and grabbed her wrist, bringing her hand with the mark up to face the tear. The green light flashed bright, a stream of energy leaping out from her palm to the crystals above.

She shuddered and tried to pull her wrist free, but he held onto it tight. Her skin was still hot, but no longer feverish. Instead he was sure it crackled with magical energy, the way the touch of her skin felt against his fingers, the way they made his bones buzz and feel so alive. So connected to the Fade.

He snuck a glance over at her again, as he heard the tear collapse closed. The flash of bright green caught her wide-eyed and she blinked rapidly.

“I… I did that?” she asked. The age had faded from her eyes for a moment. They were wide and shocked, the violent more vibrant than he had thought could be possible.

What was this feeling? Was it the magic in her hand that drew him close? He let go of her wrist and stepped back.

“The mark on your hand did. I had thought it might close the rifts. It is… nice to see you’re awake. My name is Solas.”

The woman looked at the glowing mark in her hand in horror, then up at him. The bright green light cupped her lips, brushing over her cheeks and glittered where it caught in her eyes.

“What do you mean ‘awake’?” she asked. He watched the fresh scar pucker as her brows knit together, and it took far more effort than it should have to not reach out and brush his fingers along the tender skin.

“He means,” Varric interrupted (and thank the gods for that), “That he was the one that kept that thing from killing you.”

“Oh,” she said, and curled her fingers into her palm tightly. “Thank you.”

“What’s your name? If you’ve got one?” Varric asked.

“I… I do,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to where the Seeker was standing with her arms crossed. The Seeker raised an eyebrow.

“Well, what is it?” Pentaghast asked. She looked even less pleased than the last time Solas had seen her. What had he missed when the woman had woken up?

“Milliara. My name’s Milliara.” The dalish woman shoved her knives back into the loops of leather on her shoulders.

“Nice to met you Millie,” Varric said and held out his hand to shake. Milliara hesitantly reached out and grimaced at the tight grip.

“I, That’s not my name,” she started. Cassandra shook her head.

“He does that,” the Seeker said with a grunt. “Ignore him. With any luck he’ll get bored and leave.”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Milliara said, looking at both Varric and Solas cautiously.  Again her eyes lingered on him, and he felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten. How much had she seen?

“You’re not Dalish,” she said, looking over his equipment. “But you aren’t dressed like a fl-“ she caught herself. “One of the city elves.”

Was that it? Solas could have laughed in relief. She didn’t know where he was from? That was it? He smiled and shook his head.

“No, I am not a ‘city elf’ and I am certainly not one of _yours_ , I am myself. Where I am from doesn’t matter,” he said. “Not right now, when there are more pressing issues at hand.”

Varric barked in laughter, slapping a hand onto Solas’s back so hard that he had to step forward to keep his balance. Solas glared at the short man who was still laughing.

“’At hand’,  I didn’t know you so funny, Chuckles.”

“See? He does that to _everyone_ ,” Cassandra said and grunted in disgust. “Come, maybe he’ll fall into a rift and disappear.” She turned on her heel and stalked off towards the Nightengale’s camp.  With a last glance at Varric, Milliara followed.

“I don’ think she likes us yet,” Varric whispered to Solas.

“The Seeker never liked you, dwarf,” Solas said, starting after the women.

“Yeah, yeah she never has.”


	3. Sacred Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas begins to wonder more about who the Survivor is, and how they were able to live through not only the explosion of the Conclave, but the Mark's corrupting power. A conversation that Milliara has with Cassandra leads to only more mystery about the woman, and he can't help but stay as the Survivor heads towards the destroyed temple to try to close the hole in the sky.
> 
> He tells himself that it's the thirst for knowledge that keeps him at her side, but how can that explain the fierce reaction he feels when he looks into her eyes?
> 
> Who is she, and what is she doing to him?

At first, she had moved like water. Quick and fluid, Solas had found himself watching her as she cut down shade after shade. It was, he told himself, why he noticed the way she began to waver as they fought their way closer to the advance camp. Her strikes weren’t as quick, and her feet not as steady as she tried to dodge out of the way of a shade’s claws.

He had managed to throw up a barrier around her at the last moment, deflecting the thing’s strike long enough for Varric to plant a bolt in the thing’s head. It fell to the ground, twitching. He could still see the haunted look the Dalish elf had given him. Violet eyes bright with fever, he’d seen gratefulness, fear and… something that he couldn’t quite decipher.

Even now, as he sat with Varric and listened to the Nightingale argue with the Seeker about how best to breach the temple, Solas mulled that look over. It hadn’t been anger and it certainly hadn’t been embarrassment. Had it been… resentment?

But why would she resent that he had saved her?

“Do you think she’ll make it?”

Solas looked up from checking his pack to focus on the Dwarf. Varric had initially grated on him, but the longer he spent with the dwarf, the less Solas was bothered.

“The survivor?” Solas asked, glancing over towards where the arguing had lowered to urgent but quiet discussion. His first reaction was to say she wouldn’t make it through closing the rift in the sky. But the words stilled on his tongue as he remembered the flash of violent in the fade as she had found him through the illusions of veilfire.

“I am… not sure.” Solas paused, wondering again if she had recognized him after she’d woken. “By all rights, she should be dead already from the mark on her hand. Yet she still stands. More than stands, she fights.” He turned back to his pack, telling himself that he was checking the number of healing potions he had left. 

The woman fought, but Solas frowned to himself as he remembered how she’d staggered in the snow as she had sealed the last rift they had encountered. He’d felt his hand twitch, ready to reach out and steady her of its own accord. The only reason he had managed not to, was the sheer force of will. He had felt something odd when she had steadied herself.

Pride, perhaps.

“Look lively Chuckles, Smiles is coming back with the Seeker,” Varris said under his breath. The dwarf coughed, and stood, shouldering his crossbow. “I can’t tell if the Seeker’s pleased… or pissed.”

Solas looked up to see the survivor walking towards them, a pair of empty vials in her Marked hand. She looked better, stronger than she had since he had seen her yet. Blood still flecked her face, mud and snow matted her hair, she looked wild. Like she had in the Fade, purple eyes blazing as they’d found him through the veilfire.

For a moment, just a moment, he felt his lips twist up. Swallowing the smile, Solas stood, and tied his pack closed.

“Do you give everyone names?” He asked Varric.

“Basically,” Varric said with a chuckle. “So, what’s the plan?” He nodded to the survivor as she stopped in front of them, Cassandra right behind. Solas blinked, noticing the slight shift. Until their arrival, Cassandra had been in the lead, walking ahead and expecting them all to follow. But now, it was Cassandra that trailed the survivor. Barely noticeable, but it was something Solas intended to investigate when there was more time.

“We’re going to push for the Temple with the main force,” Cassandra said, “It will be faster, though risky. I will understand if you choose to stay behind.” The seeker’s face was hard, but Solas heard the slight approval in her voice.

“Pleased,” Varric said with a wink at Solas.  The Seeker frowned, but didn’t bother asking what he meant. “And Seeker, you need our help. You can’t expect Curly and his boys to take on a mountain full of demons alone, right? They’ve been fighting all day.”

Solas nodded his agreement, although his own reasons for joining the mission were less altruistic. He needed to see what had happened at the Temple, and to see the giant rift in the sky up close. He needed to see what the Survivor would do, if she was going to be able to seal it.

“If you must,” Cassandra said with a grunt. “We leave immediately.” She shot Varric a glare that would have skewered lesser men. The Dwarf just grinned and cracked his neck.

“Cassandra,” the Dalish woman said, reaching out to rest finger tips on the woman’s arm to stop her from marching off. “She won’t- she’ll keep her word?”

“She will, if you will,” Cassandra said.

Solas watched the two women, curious at the steely look on the survivor, and the slightly… softer look on the Seeker. What could the survivor have said to soften Pentaghast in such a short time? Solas was mulling options when he realised the survivor was watching him back through wisps of her silver hair. He thought of how the little lilac scar had felt under his fingers, the way her hair had smelled of earth and smoke, and the way she had looked at him in the fade. For a moment, Solas let his nostrils flare, catching that wild scent once more.

“Shall we begin?” he asked.

“The sooner, the better,” the survivor said. She pulled her hood up over her head, brushing her hair back to keep it from her face. Matted strands fell forward regardless, brushing her cheeks. The Mark was still glowing, pulsing that Fade-green light against her skin and showing near-invisible scars in bright relief. All at once, Solas wanted to reach out, and brush her hair back. To look into those eyes and see what she was, who she was. He swallowed hard, caught off-guard by the urge. Just thinking of it made his fingertips buzz with the remembered feeling of the Mark’s proximity.

The survivor began to walk past him, towards the path that would lead to the main front. Just as she was nearest to him, she paused and looked up, eyes narrowing at him.

“Are you going to stop staring at me long enough to help close that thing?” she asked, pointing up at the hole in the sky. Behind her, Solas could hear Varric try to stifle a guffaw into a cough. Unsuccessfully. “Or are you going to be a liability?”

Solas bristled, straightening his shoulders and looking down at her.

“I am merely intrigued by the Mark, and how you survived the Fade. I will have no trouble focusing on closing the rift.” Perhaps a younger man would have blushed. Solas, however, blinked calmly, meeting that sharp violet gaze.

“Good.” The Dalish woman gave him a last glare before striding past him. Her stride lengthened, steps turning into a jog towards the sounds of fighting ahead. Solas let Cassandra pass him and pretended he didn’t see the look she gave him. Varric, unfortunately, was harder to ignore.

“Her ‘mark’, is on her hand, Chuckles,” Varric said with a chuckle. “Not those pretty eyes of hers.”


	4. The Temple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric's words have stuck in Solas's mind. That damn dwarf has a way with words, and despite trying to shake it off, Solas reacts in a way he doesn't even expect when Commander Rutherford meets the Survivor.

Solas tried to shake off the Dwarf’s comment, telling himself that it was the nature of the Dalish woman he was curious about. ‘Pretty purple eyes’, it wasn’t as if the woman was especially beautiful. Over his lifetime, Solas had met truly beautiful women. Elven beauty was all angles, sharp features and sharper wits. This woman was all edges in the way she held herself, the way she acted, but her jaw was rounded, eyes perpetually narrowed. There was a slight thickness to her waist that spoke of eating too well, and the tattoos on her face stood out against her overly pale skin. No, this woman who had stepped from the Fade was not beautiful.  She was… intriguing, But not beautiful.

The sounds of battle drowned out his thoughts for a time, but as the thoughts kept sneaking back in between spells. He’d let his curiosity show too well, and he risked too much in doing so. Unless of course, he used the excuse of being attracted to the Survivor to learn more about how she had survived, and what had happened before the explosion.

A cold gambit, but one that would pay off well in the end, Solas was sure. Yes, let the Dwarf and Seeker think he was solely interested in the woman, when it was the Mark he wanted to learn about.

“Commander Cullen,” the Seeker said, her voice steady in the tide of fighting. It pulled Solas from his thoughts. With a last gesture, he set fire to the nearest shade before the Survivor was able to dispatch it.  She stepped back, and shot him an unreadable look. Approval? Surprise? She should have been easier to read as tired and strained as she was.

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment before she turned away and joined the Seeker. Perhaps his plan would require more work, Solas mused. The woman seemed that she would take longer to win over than the Dwarf with the ruse.

“Seeker. We’ll only be able to hold out for so long, our men aren’t-” the Commander said, looking around the field. His eyes stopped at the Survivor who had just joined the Seeker. She looked up at him, and all at once it seemed that the battlefield had gone silent.

“Er, our men aren’t used to this enemy, but we’ll make sure you get to the breach.” Commander cleared his throat and turned back towards the Seeker. Solas felt something tighten in his chest as he glanced at the Commander’s throat. There was the faintest of flushes creeping up it that hadn’t been there a moment before. The man bowed slightly to the Survivor and held out a gloved hand.

“Commander Rutherford. It’s good to see you… ’re on your feet.”

With quick strides, Solas stepped up to stand behind the woman’s shoulder.  

“Commander,” he said. Surprised by the edge in his voice, “We should be going. We risk further devastation with each _wasted_ moment.”

Solas felt the sharp glances of the Seeker and the Dwarf, but he kept his eyes fixed on the Commander’s. The man blinked in surprise, and Solas pulled his lips into a tight smile. The warmth faded from Cullen’s face and he turned to Cassandra.

“He’s not wrong. Go, We’ll support you as best we can. Leliana will meet you there with the archers.” He nodded and turned on his heel. Solas watched as the man knelt to help up a wounded soldier and felt a twinge of regret. The Commander wasn’t a bad man, but something about the way the Commander had stammered and looked at Milliara…

Solas looked down at her, catching the hesitation of her unmarked hand as she pulled it back to her side. He hadn’t seen that shed extended it to take the Commander’s, but somehow that felt  better than if he’d  not interfered.

“Shall we?” He said, and gestured toward the ruined Temple.

Milliara didn’t look at him. He watched her press her shoulders back and walk forwards toward the crater and the breach itself. She seemed too small against such a horrific backdrop. But still, her steps didn’t falter… until she stopped at the first body.

Twisted and charred,  it was still standing. Arms raised to protect a face that was beyond any recognition, the metal armor had melted and fused at its chinks, holding the thing together. Solas kept to the rear of the party, watching Milliara’s reaction.

She stood in front of the twisted thing, looking into the face of horror and pain, and Solas could see the pain resonate with her. Not physical pain, but something deeper.

“I walked out of this?” She whispered, her voice nearly lost in the crackle-hum of the nearby breach. Stretching out her fingers, she let them over over the corpse’s cheek, tracing the hollow where cheekbone and burnt flesh thinned to show white teeth. “ _How_?”

“We don’t know,” Cassandra said. “Our scouts found you after you stepped out of the Breach. Do you truly remember nothing?”

Milliara shook her head once. Her eyes were still fixed on the expression of agony in front of them. Solas watched as she mouthed the word ‘how’, and looked down at her Marked hand. The light flickered along her fingers, brighter than it had been at the forward camp.

“If we don’t close the breach… the demons will spread,” the Seeker said, in a voice that surprised Solas with how gentle it was. He’d never heard the woman speak softly, let alone in any compassionate manner. But it seemed to have the effect Cassandra had wanted. Milliara nodded and curled her left hand into a fist.

“I’m alright,” Milliara said, and stepped back from the corpse. "We shouldn't delay any longer."


	5. Finding Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Survivor is recovering after sealing the rift at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Solas is trying to figure out why he's so drawn to this woman, and why he hasn't even considered leaving Haven since he's met her.

The commander had stopped by earlier in the morning his gloved hands cradling something against the chill wind. The look on his face told Solas all he’d needed to know about the early morning visit, even if the Commander himself was unaware of his true motives.

“Is she better?” Rutherford had asked, clutching the item to his chest to shield it from the frost of Haven’s sunrise. Fingers of gold had only just started to creep over the sky, reaching forward to where the hole in the sky still stood.

“She sleeps,” Solas had said. “The healer left just moments before.” He had frowned, peering at the glimpse of purple between Cullen’s fingers. Would could the man have brought that would warrant a visit of his own? Or what had he told himself warranted a visit? Solas had looked back up at the human, eyes lingering on the scar over the man’s lip before they settled on the commander’s tired eyes.

“Should you not be overseeing some drill or other?” He had asked, blocking the way to the small cabin where the survivor still rested.

Cullen’s cheeks had reddened, brighter than the cold air would have warranted. The commander had muttered something, an excuse about the troops wanting to show their appreciation for the woman’s effort in the ruined Temple of Ashes.

Solas looked over at the tin mug that now sat on the small table next to where the Herald slept. Battered, dented and obviously patched up again, it was a wonder that the mug held the flowers within it, let alone the water within to keep them bright.

Purple and white blooms, hardy royal elfroot flowers, one of the few things that was blooming this far into the mountains.

“They’re for her.” Cullen had said, thrusting the tin cup at Solas. “From the ones she saved at the temple.”

Solas ran a hand over his head, wondering why it had bothered him so much that the royal blooms had matched her eyes _just so_. Was it that he should have noticed long before the ‘troops’ had? Or was it that they reminded him of gifts long past to a woman he had once known?

A groan drew his attention back to the bed where the she lay. Once the Prisoner, then the Survivor… now those who lived in Haven whispered a new title. Herald of Andraste. Who else could it have been, seen in the fade as this woman had stepped out of the Fade with a glowing hand? Solas could think of many options, not a single one of them the martyr of the Chantry’s faith. A spirit, a dreamer or a mage could all have helped the woman.

Still, to pretend she wasn’t remarkable would be to lie to himself.

Solas reached down, brushing a strand of silver hair back from her furrowed brow. He checked the heat of her forehead with the back of his hand for the umpteenth time, wondering at how cool it was despite the injuries she’d suffered through.

The white linens around her chest were clean, but they were only the most recent. The others, soiled with pus and blood, had been whisked away some time during the night before by the healer. It was only when the fluid had ran clear that the man had grunted in satisfaction and let Solas remain to keep watch.

Solas watched her eyes flick back and forth under her lids, wondering if she dreamt of the demon that had strode out of the breach. He certainly had, in the few hours of sleep he had managed between the return to Haven and when he had given up on sleep. Wreathed in that bright green fire, the demon’s laugh was chilling, even for someone who had spent so much time in the Fade.

Perverted, twisted by the belief that it was superior to all things, the Demon had turned to the woman with no hesitation. Drawn by the magic on her hand, or perhaps sensing how the Mark was sapping her strength, it had pulled grey lips back into a dark grin and gathered electricity into its palm. The stench of ozone was still thick in Solas’s nose, and tried not to remember the sound of the lightning exploding against rock at her feet.

It was the sound that came immediately after that he remembered most clearly, and it was the same that he most wished he could forget.

Milliara had tumbled forward, tucking into a roll to avoid the attack. Quick on her feet, determined of heart, she’d rolled to her feet and leapt to sink her knives into the demon’s chest.

The sickening crunch that had followed drew silence onto the battlefield. Arrows died, swords froze, and Solas himself had stumbled as he watched the Pride Demon swat the survivor out of the air. Carelessly, almost lazily, the demon had sent the woman with the Mark into the dirt.

They had all heard her ribs crush, and the breathless keening of pain after she’d landed in the dirt.

“ _Ir abelas_.”

She whispered again, the vallaslin of her brow folding into knots. Her breathing caught on the pain of broken ribs and she whimpered. Solas brushed her hair back again, resting his palm against her temple. Her hair, now washed of the demon’s blood, was soft, smelling of the medicinal elfroot and harsh soap the healer had used.

He found himself whispering soothing nothings to her, leaning down to her ear and breathing in the smell. Elfroot, soap and something else… the dry scent of the Fade clung to her. As the smell of ozone clung to the air before a storm.

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” he’d told her countless times since dawn. But each time she whispered her apologies, Solas couldn’t help but wonder who she was apologizing to. As she had each time before, she calmed. Still, Solas knew it would only last for a short while longer before something else disturbed her rest.

 The Demon had turned to Cassandra and Leliana, laughing into their shocked faces. It’s many eyes gleaming with the surety that he had just stripped their only hope from them. The soldiers were silent, the air pregnant with silence as countless eyes shifted from the crumpled figure towards the demon.

And then, all at once, the air was thick with arrows.

Solas recalled seeing Cassandra shout something, but the words were lost as arrow after arrow struck and skidded off the Demon’s armor.

Pride was not only the failings of mortals, Solas thought, his nose creeping closer to the Herald’s hair. He’d been sure she was dead, or that she would be before the fight was through. They _all_ had, and she’d shown them that they had _all_ underestimated her.

The longer he breathed the smell of her hair in, the more he could smell the Fade on her. Slowly, he let his forehead rest against her braids, glad that the cabin was off-limits until he went to get the healer. Otherwise… he wasn’t sure he’d be able to risk such closeness. Or, maybe, he would have.

The sound of the rift exploding into instability had left him dazed. Eyes dulled with colour bursts, and ears ringing from the loud crack, Solas had almost missed the sight directly in front of him.

The demon had stumbled forward onto a knee, and Solas had looked up in time to see the Survivor bury her knives into its back. Her pale lips were red with blood, but her eyes…

“You are… inspiring,” he whispered into her ear. She was still deep into the drugged slumber that the healer had sent her to, but he couldn’t help but think she heard him. On some level. “You should have died, but you didn’t.”

The sight of the dying elf clinging to the demon’s back, her left hand glowing as brightly as the Breach itself had galvanised the soldiers. While he was sure that some of the humans initially hadn’t wanted to be shown up by some knife-ear, she’d left them all in awe as she had held onto the Pride demon until it fell to it’s knees for a final time.

Then, she’d let go of her knives and slipped from his back to the ground with a pained gasp.

Cassandra had pulled the knives from the demon’s rotting body as the Soldiers had arranged a travois to carry the Herald back to camp, and ultimately back to Haven.

Solas didn’t remember what Varric had said at that moment. Something about Heart and being too stupid to know when she was beaten, he was sure… but Solas had been too consumed with the realization that the Survivor had just managed to seal the Breach and survived the Mark’s influence as she did.

That… and if he was honest with himself, Solas knew he had been struck by the way she had held on, even though it had caused her immense pain, even though she had been dying, even though it was a Demon and the odds were against her… She had done what they had needed her to. And why? Why risk so much, why be so determined to seal the breach when she could have run off in the middle of the battle and no one would have noticed?

“Nils…” she whispered, her voice weak, breaths shallow. “Is it closed?”

Solas frowned into her hair before he slowly rocked back onto his heels, crouched next to her bed. Her eyes were closed, but she was surfacing from the elfoot concoction faster than she was supposed to. Solas blinked, looking at the crack of the cabin’s shutters and following the beam of sunlight from them to the floor.

How had so much time passed? When he’d last checked, the sliver of sunlight had been touching the door of the cabin, now it was almost at his feet. No, he had simply lost track of time, and she was waking as the healer had said she would.

Solas stood reluctantly. His fingers stayed in her hair as long as they could, relishing the feel it. Perhaps… perhaps in time he’d understand why she fascinated him so much when so many other elven women hadn’t. After all, she was Dalish, wild and misguided, the Herald had been quiet and poor company by any account so far into his time in her presence. But still, something about her, the sadness in her eyes when she thought no one was looking, or the flash of fury as she sank her daggers into the back of an enemy, something had hooked his interest.

‘Pretty purple eyes’ or no, Solas realised with a touch of surprise that he hadn’t even considered leaving the encampment since he’d met her.

That… was both exciting, and concerning.

He stood, stretching long-cramped muscles, and made his way out of the cabin into the afternoon sunlight. A page, a young elfen women, came running up.

“She’ll be awake soon. I imagine she’ll require food and drink,” Solas said, walking past the girl. All legs and arms, the young elf nodded, stammering a ‘yes sir’ before hurrying off to get things sorted.

Solas wondered, as he walked towards his own cabin, if he should have thrown out the mug of flowers. He’d wanted to, but some inner voice had stayed his hand long enough for him to reason away the strange instinct to throw away the gift that hadn’t come from him.

The Herald of Andraste, an elvish woman who had barely said five words to him… and Solas could only wonder at how much the soldiers and pilgrims of Haven already looked to her for guidance. The guards at the tavern kept glancing towards _her_ cabin, as did the squad of soldiers that jogged by in step with each other.

 _Who was she?_ Solas wondered. _And who was she apologizing to?_

 He would have time to find out, but that would have to wait. She still had to recover, and Cassandra wanted to speak with her. So did half the camp at Haven. Solas knew she'd come find him eventually, to ask about the Fade and the Breach. He would wait, and try to forget how her hair smelled, how soft it had felt under his fingers.

If the Spirits were kind, Milliara would talk to everyone else in the camp before she found him. Then, maybe, he would have a chance at not wanting to find out how her lips tasted, if she would dream in the Fade and find him. If she would look at him as she had when he'd led her to saftey not even two days before...

_Spirits below, how had she gotten so deeply into his head?_


	6. Figurehead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Milliara's survived the Temple of Sacred ashes somehow. The bargain with the Inquisition fulfilled, she's ready to go home.
> 
> Only, she wakes to find that she's become a living saint in a religion she doesn't believe in.

Every muscle in her body had frozen the moment Milliara saw what was beyond the small cabin door. Her chest clenched around her heart, squeezing painfully as she sucked in quick breaths. Eyes wide, she stared out at an unfamiliar camp, one hand clutching her injured ribs, the other braced against the doorframe.

Snow covered squat buildings and drifted over the well beaten paths that spread out from the doorstop where she stood. Some stone, some wood, the camp was a mash of old buildings and hurried shelters that sat nestled in the mountains… but it all blurred into a backdrop to the people that stood in front of her.

Milliara’s fingers dug into the wooden doorframe next to her shoulder, crushing the flowers she’d held in her hand. She clung to the frame, certain that if she let go, she was going to faint. Her ribs ached, throbbing with each panicked breath.

Rows upon rows of people stood in front of her, facing her. Dwarves, humans, elves… they stood shoulder to shoulder, their arms raised in silent salute. The blood in her body dropped to her feet, leaving Milliara swaying on her feet slightly as she stared out at the population of Haven.

One of the nearest soldiers she recognized from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. An elf who had stared at her with hatred and fear, now stood with red-rimmed eyes. Gone was any animosity, the elf's face was bright with awe as he stood outside her cabin, back straight and arm raised in salute. His expression was mirrored in each of the soldiers and townspeople that stood with him. Awe. 

“It’s her,” someone in the crowd whispered, but Milliara couldn’t see who it was. “It’s the Herald of Andraste.” The faces were blurring together, swimming in front of her eyes. Squeezing them shut, she took a deep breath to try to steady the sudden shaking in her legs.

When she opened her eyes again, the faces were all still there. No expressions had changed. No arms had lowered and no one had turned away from staring at her. Milliara bit the inside of her lip, and took a step forward. Then another, and another… until she had to let go from the safety of the door frame. The crushed flowers fell to the ground behind her, forgotten as Milliara focused on putting one foot in front of the other without falling.

The crowd parted in front of her, forming a corridor of bodies that funneled her up towards the large building at the top of the hill. Her throat was so tight that Milliara wasn’t sure if the gathered people would hear the thundering blood in her ears.

Certain that they could smell the fear on her, Milliara swallowed the hot bile at the back of her throat and pushed her shoulders back. She forced her face into a calm expression, repeating the mantra that was one of the only things that kept her focused on what mattered.

Don’t show fear.  
Get there one step at a time.  
One _breath_ at a time.

Somehow she’d ended up in front of the Chantry, staring up at the large wooden doors. She could smell the incense from inside, thick and sweet compared to the sharp winter air. Milliara rested her hand on the doors, struggling to pull herself together before she stepped them.

Inside the Chantry Cassandra would be waiting with the Nightingale with plans for her. Because the people outside who had saluted her weren’t honouring the Mark, their eyes had been on _her_. Whatever anonymity Milliara had spent the last years cultivating was gone, burnt away at the Conclave.

> _‘_ _If what you say is true and you are not responsible… when this is all finished, you can go,” Cassandra said, her arms crossed. The anger had eased from her posture though, Milliara realised. After she’d offered the bargain, the Seeker had softened slightly. Although, like Milliara, she’d never admit it._
> 
> _The realisation comforted the elf. Knowing that Cassandra was like her… helped the intense feeling of loneliness that had filled her since she’d left for the Conclave._
> 
> _‘How much does ‘all finished’ mean?’ Milliara asked, picking at the Mark on her hand._
> 
> _‘When the Breach is closed,’ Leliana said, without looking up from the map she was studying. ‘We need you, and we need what’s on your hand until then.’_
> 
> _Milliara stared at the gaping green slash on her palm. It buzzed with energy –no, with **magic** – that made the bones in her hand vibrate under her skin._
> 
> _‘And you’ll keep your end?’ Milliara asked, looking over at the Spymaster. Leliana met her eyes, and straightened._
> 
> _‘You have my word, in front of Seeker Pentaghast and Andraste herself,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep my end of the bargain.’_

Milliara looked over her shoulder to see that the people of Haven had gathered in front of the Chantry, watching her with hope on their faces. Varric was there, standing next to the Commander at the front, while the clean shaven head of Solas was further back and off to the side. The elf from the Breach stepped forward, and bent onto one knee.

“I pledge my sword to the Herald of Andraste,” he shouted. The crowd followed suit, armor clanking as the gathered fell to their knees. Varric looked around at the crowd, face half shocked and half amused. To the rear, Solas stayed standing, watching her intently just as he had since they’d first met.

Milliara swallowed hard, and pushed open the doors to the Chantry, retreating into the darkness inside.


	7. The Herald of Andraste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The survivor is now named the 'Herald of Andraste', and has been busy with Inquisition business. Or is she avoiding him?
> 
> Solas patiently waits for her to come and talk to him about the fade, but when she does, things all go wrong. So, very wrong.

'The Herald of Andraste'.

The name left an odd taste in his mouth, that those who followed the Chantry would slap their name over what she was so quickly. To claim that who she was, was less important than what she was. And what she was… was only what their saviour had offered to them in a time of need.

Solas stood outside the small cabin he’d claimed as his, watching the late afternoon sun glint off the lake below Haven. A mug of steaming tea sat on the low wall in front of him, a small slice of lemon floating in the weak liquid. He’d only sipped at it once, and already regretted making it.

It didn’t taste like he thought it should have. Like the way he used to brew it. This mix was too bland and too bitter all at once; the lemon only soured the stuff further. But it was warm on his throat, and in the frosty air of Haven, it had seemed like a pleasant idea.

“Solas.”

Gods, but she was quiet. He turned to look at her, the Herald, and smiled slightly. Dressed in the new finery of the Inquisition, Milliara could have seemed awkward or self-conscious. Instead, she seemed… as though the armor was a second skin. She wore it as if it were her own clothing, rather than if she were wearing that of someone else.

He’d seen her walking through Haven, meeting with the Spymaster, with Varric… with the Commander. But she had yet to come see him. As days passed, Solas had found himself walking toward her cabin while lost in thought. He found himself watching for her, listening for her though she hadn’t come. He’d found himself tempted to search for her in the fade, but had kept himself from seeking her out.

It would be best, he knew, if she came to him.  At last, she had.

“It is good to see you,” he said, turning to face her fully. He noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the halfhearted attempt to mask them with kohl.  “The new inquisition has kept you rather busy.”

At the mention of the Inquisition, Milliara’s brow creased. She nodded and stepped up next to him, resting her palms on the stone wall and looked out at the lake, as he had. In the distance, the breach still held trees and rock in the sky, swirling in a lazy corkscrew.

“Yes. They have. But I don’t-“ Milliara paused, glancing at his tea. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t I interrupt you, did I?” She asked, glancing at him. Solas felt something flutter in his chest at the sight of her. Eyes, the colour of elfroot blossoms held so much stress that he was sure the emotion would well up if even just one more concern was laid upon her.

“No, no not at all,” he said, setting the tea further to the side. It was safer than reaching up and brushing his fingertips over her cheek. Safer, but far harder. “I was just thinking on the events that have led up to this point. I have decided to remain with the Inquisition until such time as we close the breach.”

“You were going to leave?” She asked, the frown deepening.

“Perhaps?” Solas said. “I… was unsure about you. If you would survive the  injuries you sustained at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. But you did.”

Milliara stayed silent for a moment, watching him with that look of hers. Distrust and hurt and something else. He’d figure out that last emotion yet.

“Well… _good_.” She looked away, first down at her hand whose mark was hidden against the stone wall, then up to where the soldiers were training by the lake. To where the _Commander_ was training the soldiers by the lake.

Now, it was Solas who frowned, feeling the flutter in his chest harden to something hotter.

“You are glad I am staying?” He asked, making an effort to keep his face calm, his voice cool. “I would have thought that allying onself with an Apostate would be difficult for the _Herald of Andraste_.” At once, he regretted the subtle dig, but it was out of his mouth and in her ears.

Milliara’s head snapped to look at him, shock and frustration warring for a moment. He’d forgotten, in the days not at her side, that she was not one of the complacent city elves…

“I ap-“ He started, lifting his hands to placate her.

“You listen to me,” she said, stepping in close to him and jabbing a finger into his chest. He didn’t wince, though it had hurt. Instead, he found himself captivated by her angry eyes. Purple fire that shone brighter than the mark of the Fade on her hand.

“I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to the Conclave, I didn’t ask for whatever happened… and I certainly didn’t ask to become some Shemlen prophet’s toy. I am here, because I have to be. You have a problem with whatever reasoning they’re giving to why this thing on my hand can close rifts? Fine. Leave. We’ll find another mage, elf or not.” She leaned in, jabbing her finger into his chest again.

“IF this is the only way to stop the demons-“

This close, Solas could smell the flowers on her skin, elfroot blossoms. His nostrils flared. The flowers he’d left by her side would have withered by now. The smell was too sweet to be from the ones he had left.

“Then Shem Gods, Elvhen Gods be damned. I’ll –“

He leaned down, his hand coming up to cup her cheek as his lips found hers. Her words died in her throat, caught there before they could reach his own lips.

She tasted of honey and elfroot tea. Fresher, sweeter than the blend he had tried. Her skin was hot in the cold air, and his fingers ached to slip into her hair, as they had done the night of her arrival at Haven. She shouldn’t smell of the flowers, she should smell of earth and smoke, of leather and the Fade. She was too wild for simple flowers.

Surprise caught up to him, the realisation of what he’d just done sharp enough to force him to pull away from her.

“What-“ she gasped, staring at him wide-eyed.

“I’m sorry-“ He swallowed, his hand still on her cheek. “I was too bold.”

“ _What_.” Sputtering now, her pale cheeks flushing hot and pink.

“I-“

The words were lost to a grunt as Solas found a hand at his throat, his legs swept out from under him. He landed on the frozen ground hard enough to force the air from his lungs. Starbursts swam briefly before his eyes. The cold lick of steel at his throat told him what had happened before his vision had begun to clear.

“Don’t,” She hissed into his ear. “Ever do that again. Don’t touch me, don’t kiss me. Never without asking.”

Solas nodded.

“Never again. My apologies, Herald. I was wrong to do that.” His vision had cleared enough to see her pull back, the knife slipped back away into her belt. She stared down at him for a moment longer before she stood. Solas slowly sat up, careful not to make any threatening motions.

“We leave for the hinterlands at dawn tomorrow. If you still want to help, be ready by the gates.” She glared down at him, but even breathless Solas could see that she was more embarrassed and afraid than angry.

He felt his stomach drop.

_Why was she afraid?_

“Of course, Herald.”

Milliara nodded, and hurried off down the path, away from him.


	8. Creatures and Comforts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition has officially been declared. Restless, and waiting on important news from Leliana, Milliara finds that she can't sleep. Can't, or won't, she runs into a fellow insomniac... and strikes up a deal.

The sun shone down though the canopy in beams of gold, lighting the undergrowth a brilliant green. The colour of _his_ eyes. He was life, from the sandy crown of his head to the dirt-dark soles of his feet. His laughter was enough to keep her happy, and a smile from him enough to keep her heart floating for hours.

Milliara turned to grin at the man who waited just behind the sunlight, his face hidden in the shade of an enormous tree.

“Wait,” he said, reaching out for her. His hand reached into the sunlight to catch at her arm, but Milliara laughed and darted out of his reach. “Please,” he said. “Wait.”

“Catch me,” she laughed over her shoulder, “if you’re able.” She grinned even brighter as she sprinted forward through the forest. She stripped off her leather jacket as she ran, and tossed it aside into the brush.

“Millie,” the man called out. She laughed again, daring him to catch up to her. Her feet carried her up a pile of boulders to where the ‘Falls spilled over the small cliff into the small river below. Milliara paused, toes curling against the stone’s edge.

“Don’t go,” he said, voice cracking. Struck by sudden doubt, Milliara twisted, turning to look for him. But she was no longer in the forest, but at the Temple. The stones under her feet were cold and snow covered, the sun without warmth. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself to stave off the cold.

He stood there, small against the backdrop of the large stone temple. The sun faded, clouds rolling in too quickly.

“ _Wait_ ,” Milliara screamed. The sky flashed that familiar, sickly, green. “ _Ma_ _Vhenan_ -”

The air detonated above them. The impact threw Milliara from her feet, sending her tumbling backwards onto the rocky ground. She pushed herself up onto her hands an knees, staring up at the sky in horror.

Demons spilled out from the Breach that split the sky, racing down towards where her Heart still stood, shielding his face from the blast. Milliara tried to scramble forward, but even as she sprinted ahead, she knew that she wouldn’t be fast enough. She could only watch as he reached both arms out for her, his terrified green eyes wide and pleading.

The Demons grinned as they neared him. Needle teeth and malformed jaws parted as they looked at Milliara. A Pride Demon stepped up behind him and reached for him with thunderous laughter.

“ _NO!_ ” She screamed. Almost there. Almost-

The Pride Demon picked him up as if he was only a toy, a doll.

“M-” He gasped, one hand still outstretched.

_And Pride ripped him in two_.

Milliara woke with the scream still in her throat, choking her. Heart pounding, she struggled to free herself from the sheets that clung to her; clammy with sweat and cold in the mountain’s air. The bed was small and empty, the cabin too tight for her to breathe.

Gasping for breath, Milliara fell to the hard floor. Kicking free of the sheets that had come with her, she darted for the door as hot bile flooded her mouth. She barely made it outside before she fell to her hands and knees. What was left of her supper splattered out onto the rocky path. Eyes flooded with tears, Milliara sobbed as the image of her Heart being ripped apart replayed over her eyelids. She gagged again, stomach heaving up the last of its contents.

The frigid air of the Frostbacks bit at the tears on her cheeks and her clammy skin. The cold cut through her thin nightshirt as if it were nothing, grounding Milliara in the waking world. She waited for a moment, unsure if she was going to retch a third time. Sucking in careful breaths, Milliara reached over to rub her freshly healed ribs, now aching from the violence of being ill.

Only when she was sure that she wasn’t going to be sick again, Milliara spat out the taste of bile and eased up to her feet.

Haven was still asleep. The paths were empty, and the only waking souls she could see where the sentries that were posted at the gates of the tiny village. While one looked back towards her cottage, their interest was fleeting. After a cursory glance, the guard turned back to face outward.

Milliara closed her eyes and breathed a small sigh of relief. No one had seen her. Too many eyes watched her every move now, adoration and unearned respect in each face. They thought she was something she wasn’t.

_The Herald of Andraste_.

Milliara kicked some snow over the pile of vomit with her bare foot, Wearing boots again was uncomfortable in so many ways. They reminded her of the life she’d left behind years ago. A life that she’d relieved briefly tonight.

The dream hadn’t been real, just her mind preying on what she was most afraid of. He was safe, far away from here. Far away from where the Breach would let demons get to her Heart.

Still, until the Nightingale got word back about him, Milliara knew she would have to wait without knowing if the worst had happened. Even then, how could she be sure that he was safe when she was . Leliana had promised to have some of her agents keep eyes out for him, but there were so few… and Thedas so big…

Milliara began to walk, trying to put distance between herself and the image she’d woken up from. The walls of Haven loomed ahead, and it was hard not to run through them, and keep running. She could find him on her own, keep him safe…

On her way to the shore Milliara scooped up a handful of clean snow and popped it into her mouth to rinse out the last taste of bile. The cold was sharp, but no worse than the wind that cut at her skin through her shirt. She spat out the melted snow, feeling steadier with each step. More like herself. If she was going to get through whatever conflict was brewing, Milliara knew she’d need to be as clearheaded as possible.

Dull thuds from the lakeshore told her that she wasn’t the only one awake at this hour. Milliara’s steps slowed as she considered whether she wanted to deal with any company. The thuds continued, punctuated every third or fourth time by a man’s grunt.

Alone, in the dark, Milliara knew she’d see whoever it was before they knew that she was even there… but even still she was hesitant. What if they tried to ask for her to bless them or something? Screwing up her face, Milliara wavered. If she left now, she’d be safe but never find out who else was awake while the rest of Haven slept.

“Fuck it,” she muttered under her breath, and pressed forward. Sometimes curiosity was a bitch. It’d gotten her into her current mess, but the lure of finding out who else was awake was irresistible.

Her feet carried her lightly past the training grounds, careful to avoid stray ropes and wooden shields. The sounds of snoring from inside the nearby tents was oddly calming. A reminder of how even though a hole had opened in the sky, people were still… _people_. Creeping past them, Milliara made her way to the edge of the lake.

With only the stars for light, Milliara spotted a man by the shore. He had his back to her, the thin wool of his undershirt almost as bright as the snow underfoot. As she watched, Milliara could see tendrils of steam curl up from his bare skin, swept away by the cold wind. Armed with a wooden sword and shield, he lunged and slashed, striking a practice dummy with the sword and shield. Heavy wood thudded into the dummy over and over.

A furred animal lay near him, resting on the snow. Milliara watched it warily for movement. Was it one of those dogs the Fereldan Shems raised? A familiar fear rose up in her chest. She remembered the sound of hounds, and the way they chased down-

She swallowed hard, noticing that the animal hadn’t moved. The wind ruffled at it, carrying her scent straight to the thing. No head rose to sniff her out, and there were no warning barks. Carefully, Milliara inched forward, watching it closely for any movement.

Still no movement. She reached out with a toe, nudging it.

Milliara frowned and crouched next to it. She picked it up, realising she’d been wrong. It made a soft thwump as something fell out from the folded fur. Dark fabric had spilled out onto the snow.

Oh…

" _Herald?_ " 

“ _Um_.” She said, looking up from the pile of fur, eyes wide. Caught red handed as she’d started to lift up what was _not_ a Fereldan dog, but a very thick cloak. The Commander’s cloak. The Commander who was now staring at her, wooden sword and shield in hand, while she was holding his cloak, and had been watching him practice. In the dark. At night.

Milliara debated running. Debated it _hard_. This was not where she wanted to be, not how she’d wanted to approach the Commander to ask about how the Inquisition’s forces were, what her role was supposed to be in them.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Standing, she held out the cloak by way of explanation. “I thought it- I heard a sound and thought this was one of your dogs.” Milliara looked down at the cloak, which no longer looked like a Mabari dog.

“It was not a dog,” she added, and cringed inwardly. She should have lied. Made something up about being cold, and wanting to borrow it. Perhaps she was still more asleep than she’d thought.

Cullen’s eyebrows rose as he looked down at the cloak, then back at her. For a moment, Milliara was sure he was going to march up the hill and tell Cassandra and the Nightingale that their Herald was insane. Instead he let out a snort, and tried to muffle his laughter with a fake cough.

“No, that’s… it’s… it’s not a dog,” he said, lips pulling into a smirk despite himself. Milliara frowned. He was laughing at her?

“Well I didn’t know,” she said, voice sharp even to her ears. It wasn’t fair to blame him for the dream, for being heralded as the Herald of some dead woman, but the Commander was the only one nearby. “They’re big and furry, it could have been.”

His smirk faded. A bit. Milliara could see it lingering at his eyes as he watched her. Smug bastard.

“I apologise, most people just think it’s a small bear,” the Commander said. “You’re the first to think it was a mabari.”

Milliara watched him through narrowed eyes, unable to tell if he was teasing her or not. The fur was closer to a bear’s, true, but it didn’t smell like bear musk. She watched him a moment longer before she stepped closer and held the cloak out to him.

“Bears smell bad,” she said. Again, she cringed at the blunt words. The dream had shaken her badly if she wasn’t able to think of better ways to say things. “This just smells like…”

She paused, and brought it back to her nose, sniffing the fur. Cullen had sunk his wooden sword into the snow, and reached out for the cloak. He watched, the smirk creeping back onto his face as she buried her nose into the soft fur.

“It smells like snow and sweat,” she said finally. It smelled like warmth, woodsmoke and leather. It smelled like her home had, before all this had started. She pulled it from her nose and held it out to him again.

“Thank you, I’m glad I don’t smell like a bear,” he said with a smothered laugh. One that faded off as he looked down at her.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked, his hand reaching out. It hesitated by her shoulder for a moment before he took his cloak from her. “You’re only in a night shirt.”

Milliara looked down at the thin material, still clammy from her dream. It was cold, yes. She’d started shivering at some point, her toes tingling in the snow.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I just couldn’t sleep.” She wrapped her arms around herself and shrugged.

“Your feet are bare!” he said, and shook out the cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders.

“They usually are,” Milliara said, trying to shake the cloak off. It smelled like home. She didn’t want it. It smelled like home where her Heart was and where she couldn’t go. Her throat grew dry, and she felt her eyes start to get hot.

“Even in the snow?” the Commander asked, pulling the cloak back up onto her shoulders. He frowned down at her, keeping his hands in the fur this time to keep it in place.

“Elf,” she said, reaching up and pointing at the Vallaslin on her cheeks. She immediately regretted drawing attention to her face. The heat was still in her eyes, and the lump in her throat was only getting worse the longer she smelled Home.

The Commander’s frown deepened as he looked at her. Milliara looked away and cleared her throat. She focused at the dummy, now standing crookedly from the assault on it.

“Herald are-”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, glaring at him. “I’d rather you call me rabbit, or… or knife ear. Just not _that._ ”

He blinked, leaning back slightly from her.

“I would never call you either of those things,” he said quietly. “I would never call anyone those things.”

“Then don’t call me Herald,” Milliara said quietly. “I’m not. Everyone seems to think I’m some chosen one, here to save everyone. I’m not.” The heat of her eyes overflowed now, and she reached up to wipe the traitorous tears away. “I’m _not._ ” She was just an elf, one who’d made bad decisions that led her to the steps of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Then everything went wrong.

“I apologize,” he said quietly. “What would you like me to call you?”

“Milliara, Millie if you want,” she said. The dummy was blurry now, her eyes too full to stop the tears.

“Then call me Cullen,” he said, pulling her into a hug, a hand rubbing her back. Milliara tensed at first, but closed her eyes, leaning into the hug. It was quiet, comfort for comfort’s sake. The way the Keeper used to hug her when she was small and had come to her with a scrape on her knees.

“Okay,” she said quietly. He kept his arms around her, light and warm. Part of her hated him for reminding her so much of home. The rest was grateful.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” Cullen said, his voice more of a thrum in his chest than actual sound. Millie tucked her arms against his chest, unwilling to give up the contact just yet. He wasn’t he one she wanted to touch, not the one she wanted to feel breathe next to her, but he was better than nothing.

“Often?” She asked, voice rough from the lump in her throat. “You can’t sleep often?”

“More often than I’d like,” he said. She felt his chin rest on the fur he’d draped around her. “What about you?”

“Since the Breach,” she lied. The lie ruined something in the hug, subtle but Milliara suddenly felt guilty for relying on a stranger for comfort. She straightened her shoulders and pulled back. She was surprised at how easily he let her go, but grateful that he hadn’t tried to hold her longer.

“I’m out of shape,” Milliara said, looking up at the Commander. He frowned, confused by the rapid change in topic. “I’m rusty, I haven’t had to hunt for a while and the edge is gone.”

“You’re thinking of training?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. Milliara could see gooseflesh lift along the skin of his collarbone, creeping up his neck.

“I _will_ be training, whether or not you’re willing to help,” Milliara said. The steel in her voice surprised her, but when _her Heart_ was at risk… she didn’t have the luxury of being meek. “I won’t be sleeping much for a while; I might as well make use of the time.” She pulled the cloak off her shoulders and held it out to him again.

“Besides, that dummy is standing still, the demons out there sure as hell won't. How many of the troops are wiling to strike at their Commander?” She asked. Another bargain... Milliara wondered if this one would have unintended consequences as well. The way things were going, the Commander's tent would either explode into a herd of Nugs, or she'd be named the Maker Returned.

Cullen blinked in surprise, but he let out a snorting laugh at her question.

“Probably too many,” he admitted, and took the cloak. He glanced at her feet. Before he continued. “But I’m not training you unless you’re wearing proper clothing. Cassandra would kill me if the Her- if you developed frostbite.”

Milliara glared at him, but he simply shrugged.

“She would,” he said. “Go get your boots and a warmer shirt. Then we’ll get to work.”

“Fine,” Milliara said, turning on her heel and heading back up to the village. Stupid boots. They chaffed at her heels, and felt clunky and heavy. They’d only slow her down, but if that was the only condition to training, so be it.


	9. Making Amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their last interaction, Solas is left with a choice: admit he was wrong and try to repair the damage he's done, or risk never finding out what happened to the Herald in the Fade... and never getting to find out who she really is.
> 
> But Pride is hard to swallow, especially for a certain elven apostate.

The march into the Hinterlands felt far longer than it had any right to. Without any horses, the fledgling inquisition was stuck crossing Thedas on foot. Even Solas, with his hardened feet had started to flag on the third day.  The greener of the Inquisition recruits were hard-pressed to keep up with the Herald.

She kept up a feverish pace, often disappearing ahead of them, only to double back with an annoyed expression on her face. She had broken camp both days before dawn, and had to be reminded by Seeker Pentaghast of all people to take rests for the sake of the troops that were their escort.

“I don’t know if I like her anymore,” Varric grumbled, trudging along next to the apostate elf. “Dragging us out into all this… nature stuff. I can’t sleep at night and then the damn birds start singing in the morning. It’s disgusting.”

Solas glanced down at his… friend? He supposed that they had grown into a friendship of sorts. The Seeker had obvious distrust for the both of them, and by extension, so did most of the soldiers in their escort. Although, Solas had noticed a number of the recruits whispering about getting a book signed by the dwarf.

The Inquisition was certainly odd.

“You spent time with the Champion of Kirkwall, did you not?” Solas asked with a small smile at his short friend. Yes, friend.  “Are you not used to adventuring?”

“Not like _this_ ,” Varric muttered, gesturing to the head of their column where the Herald was walking next to the Seeker. For most of the trip, the two had been at each other’s sides unless the Herald had disappeared off ahead. Solas wondered if the Herald had mentioned the incident the day before they’d set out. He reached up and rubbed the back of his head where he had hidden the bruise from their encounter under a cowl.

“Hawke at least would take breaks to visit taverns and be friendly.  Her Heraldness  here barely even seems to sleep. My feet need a break.”

“I believe that you’ll soon get that rest you want,” Solas said, gesturing to where an Inquisition scout had steppe out of cover on the path ahead of them all.  “It looks as though we’ve arrived.”

“Thank the Maker,” the Dwarf groaned. He stretched out his back, grunting as it cracked and popped noisily. Ahead, a recruit turned around and shushed them.

 “… _Really_ kid?”

 “If you’ll excuse me,” Solas said, leaving the dwarf to his argument with the recruit.  He was sure that once the party had gotten sufficient rest cooler heads would prevail throughout.

 Solas found himself struck with a strange sense of guilt as he walked up the stopped column to where the Herald was standing with the Seeker and the forward scout. Was he the reason that the Herald was pushing the party so hard? The thought made him frown, and he slowed his steps, suddenly unsure if he should intrude on the meeting of women ahead.

 Had he poisoned any goodwill between himself and the Herald, or was there still time to salvage things?  If he had, then he had ruined any chance to learn what had happened at the Conclave, or how she had survived with the Mark on her hand.  Perhaps it would be best to swallow whatever burgeoning feelings he had, in the hopes of repairing the fade.

 It would not be the first time that he had acted against his own wishes for the betterment of others, but the taste of sacrifice was so sour on his tongue that he found himself resentful of the Commander for gifting her with the elfroot blooms in the first place. Even as he did, Solas knew that he was only to blame for letting himself give in to such an impulse.

 How had she created such an impact on him in so short a time? No other woman had been able to make him… _not think_ as she had. H

 “When you have a moment, Herald” Solas said, slowing to a safe distance from the three women. Almost hidden behind Seeker Pentaghast was the scout, freckled and a little nervous, the Dwarf glanced over at him.

 “Oh, I’m uh, I’m done. Briefing the Herald I mean. Lace Harding, at your service,” She said, holding out her hand to him.  Solas smiled and took it, shaking it once as he had seen Varric do so often.

 He could feel the purple eyes of the Herald on him, sharp and rightfully distrustful.  However, when he looked up at her and the Seeker, he was taken aback at the fear there.  That was the emotion he’d been at a loss for earlier.

 “Pleased to meet you, Scout Harding.”

 Why was the Herald so afraid? There was much that she could be afraid of, the Mark, the Breach, the fact that she was now the figurehead of a religion that she refuted by wearing those lines on her face… so why was it _him_ that she seemed to be afraid of? The resentment towards himself dissipated, replaced instead by a cold anger at whatever or whoever had taught the Herald to be afraid of a kiss.

 “I don’t have the time,“ Milliara started, only for Cassandra to rest a hand on her shoulder in support.  Scout Harding stared, mouth hanging open slightly. Evidently the Seeker’s reputation was well known among the Inquisition troops. Perhaps due to the tales Varric was so happy to tell around the camp’s fires.

 “Please,” Solas said. “It will only be a moment.”

 He could see the Herald’s shoulders press back in resolve, and knew that she’d accept before she did. After a moment, she nodded. Cassandra looked at her, waiting for a confirmation before she let her hand drop. She got it when Milliara nodded again.

 “Just a moment, though.”

 Solas gestured off to the side of the camp, leading the way so she didn’t have to turn her back to him. As it was in nature, it was with people. Corning a frightened being, animal spirit or person would only result in a panicked frenzy. Allowing Milliara to stand with Cassandra at her back, even at a distance would let the Herald feel most comfortable in this awkward situation.

 “What is it?” She snapped, covering her fear with crossed arms and a furious glare. But now that he’d seen it Solas recognized the crease of skin under her eyes as suppressed worry, the tightness of her lips as barely restrained panic.

 “I want to apologize,” Solas said, keeping his hands at his sides and clearly in view. “I was… rash and accosted you. I am truly sorry. You were in the right to act as you did.”

 The Herald’s eyes narrowed still, until they were slits of purple.

 She said nothing, but didn’t walk away.

 “I tended to you while you were recovering from the blast at the Conclave, and again upon your arrival at Haven. I… was impressed with how strong you are.” He paused, watching her face soften ever so slightly.

 “I felt that I had grown to know you more than I had. I acted in error and can only ask that you forgive me.”

 Milliara watched him, but the fury had eased to a quieter wariness. Solas felt his chest twist, sure she was going to walk away and tell the Seeker to remove him. Instead, she took a deep breath.

 “You’ll never do that again?”

 He shook his head.

“Never, not without permission.” He couldn’t help but add that last part on. It was his tongue that got away from him again, and Solas knew that he’d have to work hard around her to keep his words in check.

 There was too much at risk otherwise.

 “And what if I don’t give you permission?” Milliara asked.

 “Then I never do it again,” he said truthfully. He didn’t say that it would be difficult, or that he might dream of it in the Fade, but he knew that if she truly didn’t want him to kiss her, he never would again.

 “Why should I believe you?” she asked, but he saw that her shoulders had relaxed. She believed him, or believed him enough for now. Only time would truly prove to her that she was safe from his unwanted actions.

 “Why is up to you,” Solas said. “But should I ever find the person who made you so afraid of a kiss… I can only hope that they would not be an asset to the Inquisition. I have no doubt I would kill them.”

 He couldn’t help the small smile of amusement as her eyes shot open wide.

 “Does that surprise you, Herald?” He asked.

 “I’m not afraid of a kiss!” she hissed, but he could tell that the heat of her words was more embarrassment than anger.

 “Of course not. But I would still kill them,” Solas said. “No one deserves to be afraid of affection.”

 She stared at him now, cheeks pink and hot, and her eyes still wide. Already his promise was proving difficult, but now that he knew her reaction, he simply folded his hands.

 “You should allow me to take a look at your feet,” he added, nodding down at the boots she wore. “You are Dalish, and unaccustomed to wearing footwear, correct? I’ve noticed that you’ve been limping for the last two days.”

 She tightened her arms around herself, defensively now.

 “I’m fine, boots are just… weird,” she said, and subconsciously shifted her weight. 

 “You can lie to Cassandra and Varric all you’d like, but I would like it if we were honest with each other Herald. If only so that I can try to build up trust where I recklessly destroyed it,” Solas said quietly.

 “I can heal them for you, if you wish.”

 Milliara bit her lip, glancing over to where the camp was taking shape. Solas followed her gaze and noticed how the recruits kept glancing up at her. Most of the faces held wonder and awe, while some held distrust, even still.

 “Ah,” he said quietly. “I see. I can meet you at night, away from… eyes.”

 He felt her eyes snap back to him, and he started walking away.

 “You can finish what you started if you feel that I act inappropriately,” he said. “But the Herald of Andraste should not let sore feet hamper her when she rescues the village of the Crossroads, correct?”

 He understood now why she had pushed them all so hard. Even though she may be exhausted and in pain herself, she was now a mythic figure to these people. She had stepped out of the Fade, helped by Andraste herself, at least for those who believed in the Chantry’s teachings.

 The Herald had to be something more than a normal woman. She wasn’t allowed to show any of the normal emotions she ought to in such a situation. Fear, doubt, pain, exhaustion… those were for those not chosen by Andraste.

 ***

 Solas made sure that the Herald had seen him walk from the camp to a small outcropping of rock that oversaw the valley of the Crossroads below. The sounds of fighting were distant, erupting in cracks of magic and the ring of steel.

 He frowned, watching in the distance as a plume of orange fire appeared on the horizon. Purple lightning flickered closer by, only to be snuffed out as its wielder was cut down.

 “Were you one of them?” His heart jumped, both in surprise and gladness that she had come. He looked over at her, and smiled sadly.

 “One of the rebels?” He asked. He shook his head, looking at back to the horizon as the orange glow of fire had spread to some buildings. “No. I do agree that restraining mages in a Circle is harmful, but I believe there were better ways to go about seeking freedom.”

 He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, tracing where the faint moonlight traced the sweep of her nose, and illuminated her silver hair. He took a breath in, and was glad to smell leather and earth instead of elfroot flowers.

 “I- “ She bit her lip again, chewing at its corner as she thought. “I understand why they did it, but you’re right. I think there was a better way. Maybe. I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t know what the Circles were like, how bad they were.”

 She fell silent for a moment, and Solas watched her wrap her arms around herself. He waited, hands pressed together at the palms in front of him so he didn’t reach out and brush her hair back behind her ear.

 “But you know what something similar was like,” he said after a moment. “Didn’t you?”

 He was rewarded with a shocked look, and he couldn’t help but feel his chest get hot and tight all at once. Solas had to admit that he was wrong for a second time… she _was_ beautiful. Maybe not under the harsh sun at midday, but at night, under the moon? She rivalled all the beauties he’d known.

 Her pale skin glowed, silver hair catching moonbeams and turning them into silver silk. Her face was only marred by those tattoos, but those were a part of her. They deepened every frown, sharpened every glare… and he was sure that they’d broaden a radiant smile. If and when she let herself do so.

 “How did you know?” She asked.

 Solas almost answered that he hadn’t, that he’d been wrong when he’d thought her pretty but plain. It took a moment to remember that she was talking about her own experiences, not what he thought of her. He blinked, and looked at the valley below.

 “You said you understood why they rebelled. Not that you could see why,” he said softly. He could feel her eyes fix on him. The gaze made him feel warm, and he realised how easy it would be to learn to need it, the way a plant needs the sun. She was more dangerous than she knew, Solas realised.

 “You _understood_.”

 He heard the tiniest of huffs, and glanced over in time to see her frowning at the ground.

 “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said quietly. “But, you came here for help with your feet, did you not? I’ve taken up your time with needless prying. Would you sit?” he said, gesturing to a nearby boulder, half buried in the ground.

 “You… weren’t. I let it slip out,” she said. “But you’re right, I’d rather not talk about it.” She eased herself down onto the rock. As she pulled her feet free of the boots, carefully and gingerly, he watched as she bit her lip to keep from wincing.

 Even with just him, she tried to hide her pain, Solas realised, kneeling down in front of her feet. He pulled out a couple small packets from his bag and opened them to reveal elfroot leaves, fresh from the hike earlier that day.

 “May I?” he asked, gesturing to her feet. Never without asking. Never again.

 Milliara nodded, hesitating only a heartbeat too long.

 “Yes. If you have to,” she added, lifting up a battered foot. The tough calluses along her soles were familiar to Solas, and had weathered the tough march well, but it was the softer skin along the tops of her feet and up her heel that had suffered. Rubbed to blisters and then raw to bleeding, the skin was an angry red, left uncared for over a period of days.

 “Have you not cleaned the wounds?” Solas asked, frowning up at her. Milliara shifted a bit on the rock, glancing away towards the valley.

 “I wash them in creeks, and tried to clean them…” she mumbled. “When everyone’s going to slowly. I thought I’d done okay…” She trailed off, glancing back at him out of the corner of her eye.

 “You weren’t the healer of your clan,” Solas said, shaking his head as he pulled magic to his fingers, starting to cast a healing spell to get rid of the worst of the abrasions.

 “No. I wasn’t,” she said, bristling again. “I did my best, I didn’t realise I was going to get a lecture as well as help tonight.” It was amazing, Solas realised, how quickly she could harden up her shell again. An innocuous comment turned barb without his intent.

 “My apologies,” he said with a faint smile at her. “I should leave the jokes to our Dwarven friend then, it seems.” The magic flared from his fingers, illuminating them both in a faint green light. Under his hands the angry welts eased, weeping blisters sealed and deflated to pale skin.

“Oh,” she said, blinking. She relaxed bit, but not nearly as much ass he had been before he’d mentioned her Clan.  “Sorry… I guess I don’t have a sense of humour.”

“I hear the same from Varric. Perhaps he would be willing to help us develop some.” Solas set her foot back down on the ground and gently picked up her other one to repeat the process.

It was so quick, he nearly missed it. A flash of parted lips and teeth before it was pressed back away.

A _smile_.

Solas felt his own lips pull into one of his own.

“I won’t tell him that you said that,” Milliara said, watching as he healed her other foot. “He’d never let either of us live it down.”

“Exactly my thoughts, Herald,” Solas said. He reluctantly let her foot free. As much as he enjoyed the gentle touch, the knowledge he was easing some of her hurts, he had a promise to keep.

Never again. Never without asking.


	10. Veterans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana delivers a message that Milliara has been desperately waiting for. Talk turns to the state of Orlais, and the increasingly political role that the Herald is expected to perform. While Milliara expressions concerns over visiting Val Royeaux, she's reminded that ultimately... it can only be her. And that she had better learn to swim in the Orlesian sea of sharks, or be devoured by them and their Game.

The Vestry of Haven’s Chantry was the only room in the building that Milliara had spent any time in. First used as the tense meeting place where the Inquisition had formed, Haven’s people now referred to it as the ‘War Room’. The original table in the room had been too short for the massive map of Thedas that Leliana produced, and had been replaced sometime while Millie had been in the Hinterlands looking for the Horsemaster.

She hadn’t found him, but she _had_ found an unhealthy concentration of bears and a healthy supply of elfroot. The villagers of the crossroads would be fed and warm for the time being, with many gasping at the surprise of thick furs and gifts of healing herbs.

The area was quieter now, the closer bands of Templars and rogue mages wiped out. Perhaps she could have tried to talk to those fighting, but they’d been attacked each time her small party had approached either group. Three weeks in the Hinterlands, exploring and trying to find the Horsemaster… and looking at the map, she could cover her progress with the palm of her hand.

Spread out in front of her in ink were mountains that had nearly killed her the first time she’d crossed them, lakes that she remembered to be as large as seas, both small compared the swaths of ink that represented the continent as a whole. The map was mostly bare, with only a few markers sitting on top of key locations. The Crossroads, the Storm coast… and Val Royeaux.

Milliara gently picked up the pewter marker that sat on the Orlesian city, a flaming eye to represent the Inquisition, and gently turned it over in her hands. The craftsmanship was rough, the seams of the casting still there under her fingers. Were it made in Orlais, Milliara was sure it would have been silver filigree with a faceted gem in the pupil of the eye.

“Does it’s construction meet your standards?”

Sure that the door hadn’t opened behind her, Milliara turned quickly, the map marker still in her hand. She wasn’t sure how long the Nightingale had been there, and knew better than to ask. The spymaster smiled slightly and walked forward, a mug of steaming tea in each hand. Milliara wondered which was more intimidating: the smile or the fact that it was of genuine concern. Mostly genuine, at least. Maybe.

“I didn’t think anyone else was still awake,” Milliara said, carefully placing the marker back onto the map. Leliana leaned against the table, facing he but watching the marker.

“I keep odd hours. As does our Commander, as you are aware,” Leliana said, “I thought you might be chilled from you practice tonight. I’ve brought you something warm to drink now that you have exhausted the poor man.”

“So you know about that, then.” Milliara took the offered mug, wrapping her hands around it to warm them. Haven was colder than the Hinterlands, but she rolled her eyes at the thought of ‘wearing out’ the Commander. If anything, she was sure he’d have been set to keep practising until the sunrise.

“What good of a spymaster would I be if I was unaware of the habits of our Herald?” Leliana said, reaching into her vest. “I bring more than tea, the letter that you have been waiting for.” 

Milliara straightened, setting the drink down onto the table.

“You have it?” she whispered, one hand gripping the table tightly. “I wasn’t sure- the Keeper doesn’t- I…” she stammered, throat closing. It was hard to breathe, weeks of waiting, unsure if the messengers had even been able to reach the clan.

“Here, read it,” Leliana smiled, holding out a small roll of parchment. “Before you die of panic.”

Milliara flickered a half smile at Leliana, snatching the roll from her hands. She tore off the twine knot, unable to undo the knot with trembling fingers. Was he safe? There had been reports of rifts in the area, not to mention all the shemlen fighting…

Her hands still shook as unrolled the note, eyes searching for the words she craved. At the top, in the careful letters of the Keeper, a simple phrase. There was more below, written by the messenger, but that all blurred as she stared at that simple phrase.

_Aneth Ar’el, Hamin._

“And?” Leliana’s voice jolted Milliara back to awareness. She blinked, wiping a stray tear away with the back of her hand. When she first tried to answer, nothing came out. Instead she smiled weakly and cleared her throat.

“He is safe,” she whispered, clutching the note tight. As if it might fly away and take away any reassurance with it. “He’s safe.”

“That is excellent news,” Leliana said, walking up to the table. She still had that small smile on, the cat-caught-the bird smile that was just the corners of her lips. Milliara realised in that instant that the spymaster had known what the note said. Of course she would, she’d be reading all incoming and outgoing mail. If not her, one of her agents.

“You promise that no one else knows?” Milliara said. How many people would use him to get at her now? Before she only had to worry about roving demons and a particularly angry man who was sure he _owned_ Him. “Just you and Cassandra?”

Leliana met her eyes, the coolness Millie saw there was both reassuring and concerning. They were alike in some ways, Milliara was almost sure. Almost, it was so hard to tell with the Nightingale.

“Of course,” Leliana said, pushing the forgotten mug of tea towards Milliara. “I made a promise to you and to the Seeker in front of the Maker. I would not break such a thing. You have given up much to be here, and I fear that you will only continue to sacrifice your own needs for those of Thedas.”

The elf reluctantly set the message down and picked up the cup. Her hands were still trembling, but the heat of the mug helped relax her tense muscles. That, and it felt wonderfully soothing against the Mark. A puff of breath sent the steam scattering in the cool air of the war room, allowing Milliara to take a light sip. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Leliana made the best tea in the camp. Strong and sweet with the slightest touch of honey.

“I would tell you that it gets easier as time goes on,” Leliana said, her eyes surveying the map in front of them. “But that would be a lie.”

“You travelled with the Hero of Fereldan, didn’t you?” Milliara asked quietly, watching the spymaster’s face. It flickered, a rare expression that hadn’t been carefully planned out in advance. There and gone so quickly, had she blinked, Milliara would have missed it.

“I did,” Leliana answered after a long moment. Her words were slow and careful. “I miss my friend, but my duty was to serve Divine Justinia. And now, now it is to serve the Inquisition.” She reached out, adjusting the Val Royeaux marker.

Milliara took a sip of tea, eyes fixed on the carved castle that marked her next destination.

“Do you miss it?” Milliara asked after a moment.

“Travelling with the Hero?” Leliana asked, resting her palms on the table as Milliara had earlier. “I suppose I miss some things. But there is so much to do here, and I am not the girl I once was.”

“No,” Millara said, watching how the nightingale carefully kept her eyes on the table. “Do you miss the Game?”

Leliana blinked, arching an eyebrow as she looked over at the elf. Deep down, Milliara felt a twinge of pride at being able to catch the spymaster off guard.

“It is exhilarating, but I think my talents are best suited the the shadows for now. Do _you_ miss it?”

Millara wrinkled her nose over the mug at the thought.

“No,” Milliara said after a moment. “Not even for a heartbeat.”


	11. Frilly Cakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Val Royeaux, Solas indulges Milliara with a simple gift. But as he is pulled away by her to examine elven writing, will he be able to keep a level head? Or will he be caught up in the first chance he's had since the Hinterlands to repair the damage he's done to their relationship?

She had asked for them to wait for her at the ostentatious café, while she took Cassandra on an ‘errand’. There had been no room for argument with the Herald, and Solas wondered if she was aware how she already spoke with more weight. Of course, with the Seeker standing behind her, arms crossed over her chest and daring Varric to disagree, Solas was sure that the Herald had felt confident. He didn’t blame her, not for a heartbeat.

A small glass of wine sat in front of him, the drakestone stem rising from between his fingers to cup the glass flute. The wine had been a pleasant surprise, light and fruity and far too drinkable for Solas’ liking. It tasted the way spirits of summer felt in the Fade. He wondered if the winery was aware of how perfect they had replicated the nature of summer. Then again, as this was Orlais, Solas was sure that they were quite aware.

“Still on your first glass Chuckles?”

Varric sauntered back from the server’s counter, a tankard of ale in hand and a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm. He grinned and sat on the bench next to Solas. Although the dwarf had made more than one return trip to the counter, he seemed to be sober enough, a feat that Solas admired.

“It is very good, I would hate to waste it,” Solas said, glancing down at the glass. It had also been rather expensive, much more so than a mug of beer.

“This isn’t’ the first time you’ve been to Val Royeaux, is it?” Varric asked, flipping through the papers for an empty one.

“Physically?” Solas asked. “I’ve seen it in the Fade before. Memories of what it once was, of the spirits that live here, or spoke of it. I will admit that the food and drink is exceptional, and far better than the memories of humans peddling bone trinkets in a field of mud”

Solas realised Varric was looking at him. No, _smirking_ at him. The apostate waited, wondering what it was that had the Dwarf so amused this time.

“You didn’t buy that for yourself, did you?” Varric asked, pointing at the box that sat just to the side of Solas’s wine. The same blue as a robin’s egg, the cardstock box was neatly tied up with white twine into a bow Thinking of it now the idea seemed so frivolous, but after what the Herald had gone through in the name of Thedas with so little regard…

Solas was sure she deserved something frivolous… if she wanted it.

“No, I did not,” Solas said, and took a sip of his wine. He set the nearly empty glass back onto the table and took a deep breath. What if she didn’t want it? What if she read more into the gift than there was? Although, if he were fully honest with himself, Solas knew that she’d read as much into the gift as there was intention. He never had been very good at lying to himself.

“I thought,” he said after a moment, with Varric still smirking at him. “That she deserved a moment of rest, of not worrying about anything and allowed to simply enjoy life.” The smirk faded a bit, and Solas smiled slightly at the dwarf’s more sombre expression.

“She has been a pretty good sport about… all of it,” Varric conceded. “She came to talk to me, right after Seeker Pentaghast and Red restarted the Inquisition. I was sure she was going to run off that night. Even in Kirkwall, dealing with Hawke at the worst points of that mess, I’ve never seen someone more scared, more out of their element.  But there she was, waiting at the gates before even Curly was up the next morning.”

A pang of guilt struck Solas, as he realised that she must have gone to see Varric just after she had corrected a lapse in Solas’s judgement. Over and over, he replayed that conversation in his mind, and every time he wished that he had been able to control himself. The look in her eyes haunted him in the fade, in waking life, every time he looked at her.

That he had caused such a reaction in her, such fear and anger… it was hard to forgive himself.

“Indeed,” Solas said, looking out at the street where people bustled back and forth in various concentrations of finery. “I must admit that were I in her position, declared the chosen of a prophet of a god that I do not believe in, I would not be so patient nor willing to help those who had put me in such a position.”

“Yeah, she’s… something else,” Varric said. Solas heard him take a long drink of his ale, but kept his eyes on the street before them. Watching for a familiar flash of silver hair and violet eyes.

“Scary as shit though, in a real fight,” Varric muttered and Solas couldn’t help but chuckle. “The look she gets when she finds one of those rifts, I’m just glad I’m usually behind her at that point,” Varric added.

Varric was lucky he’d never been on the receiving end of that glare, cold violet eyes that promised cold steel and colder regard.

He’d watched it turned on the Templars earlier that day. Sure that he was going to witness the end of the Inquisition, Solas had watched the Templars denounce the Chantry and the Herald both. He had expected an explosion of movement and blood.

Instead, she’d surprised him yet again. TheHerald had shown the fallen mother compassion in the face of insult and degradation, and offered a hand to help her back to her feet.

He twisted the glass stem between his fingers, watching as the people of Val Royeaux walked past.

Even as he thought that he had finally gotten a handle on her logic, on what made the Herald make the decisions that she did… she surprised him with a temperance he thought long extinct. Especially among the Dalish from which she’d come. At worst she was an enigma, at best, the Herald was someone, some _thing_  that the world hadn’t seen in thousands of years.

It had him worried as much as intrigued, if he was honest with himself. Who  _was_  she?

“Speak of the devil,” Varric said, and Solas looked up at the street, eagerly searching for her face.

Through the crowd, he spotted her hair, and he lifted a hand in greeting to get her attention. Cassandra wasn’t by her side, and for a moment Solas felt a touch of worry. Had something happened? The Seeker was normally the Herald’s shadow, yet Milliara walked up to their table, alone.

“Herald,” Varric said, lifting his mug in greeting. “what happened to the Seeker?”

Milliara crossed her arms over her stomach, glancing around the café nervously.

“She’s handling an order for the inquisition,” she said. “Varric, can you go help her at the shop by the apple tree?”

The dwarf took his mug and threw his head back, chugging down the last of his ale before he stood. Solas blinked, surprised at how steady Varric was despite how much he had had to drink. Varric winked at him before nodding to the Herald.

“Sure thing, if I don’t make it back to camp at the end of the day, you’ll know who’s’ responsible.” The Herald smiled slightly, but Solas noticed that it didn’t reach her eyes. Had the encounter with the Templars earlier that day affected her more deeply than he’d thought?

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Solas asked, finishing his wine and standing. He carefully picked up the box so that he wouldn’t forget it at the table. It was unlikely that he would, but the Herald made him do unlikely things.

“Yes, well,” she said, glancing around. “I think so. Not at the stores.” Solas followed her glance to the human who stood at the café’s counter. Instead of the bored expression the man had worn throughout the afternoon, now Solas saw that he was staring at the Herald with a mixture of shock and… familiarity?

“We should go,” the Herald said, turning to face Solas. The apostate couldn’t help but notice the very last thing to travel to his direction were her eyes. The tattooed lines on her face crinkled into a frown, and it was difficult to resist reaching out and smoothing her forehead with a touch of his hand.

“Of course, please lead on.” As ever, he waited to gauge her reaction. Every time he’d healed her, every time he’d applied a polituce or bandaged her wounds, Solas had waited to be sure that she was willing to let him near.

The kiss, as lovely and as wild as it had been, had come at too high a cost. One that he would never again be willing to pay.

However it would be so much easier if he could forget how hot her lips had been… how sweet they’d tasted.

“The pier,” she said curtly, glancing back at the server, who hadn’t moved. Still staring, still watching her with a strange expression. “There’s something there I’d like you to take a look at.”

“Then let us go,” Solas said, picking up his staff and gesturing for her to lead on with a gentle smile. So much of it felt odd, following this strange woman with the Mark on her hand when he knew-

But what other choice did he have? Even if he had other choices, would he follow someone else? Solas was unsure. There was still too little of information about her. The spirits whispered to him in the Fade that they knew her secrets, but he had yet to take them up on their offers to tell him.  

Milliara nodded, anxiously fiddling with the Mark on her hand as he stepped around the table to join her. Once he had, she turned on her heel without a word. He followed, breathing in the scent of her in the air she displaced.

In the world of Val Royeaux, so full of perfumed decadence and hidden self-ness, the familiar smell of metal and earth was reassuring. As was the lack of elfroot flowers, although Solas had a difficult time admitting as much.

He followed her down to the smell of salt, where Val Royeaux’s streets met water. Merchant ships clogged the port, the last of their wares being unloaded for the following morning’s market. In this working area of the city, two elves blended in better than they had in the rich plaza where Solas had watched the Orlesians pull faces at their pointed ears and whisper disgusting nicknames that they thought were out of hearing.

But the ports, they were full of many shapes and sizes of Thedans, and were it not for the way the setting sun lit the Herald’s silver hair, Solas might have lost her in the crowd completely. He reached out with his free hand, catching her fingertips so as not to lose her. The touch, gentle as it was, sent a shock of heat through him.

She paused, steps faltering for a moment. Solas waited, fingers still touching only the tips of hers. He searched her face for disapproval, or approval… and found nothing but surprise and a touch of confusion.

“The crowd is thick,” he said after a moment. She watched him still, and Solas felt that she could surely see through any mask he might have put on. “I would not risk losing you, Herald.”

Bold words that flew from his lips, lost to her before he had a chance to think them over. Solas swallowed, unsure if he should add a witty comment about the Seeker skinning him alive if he had lost the Herald of Andraste to the crowds of Val Royeaux. His lips had already started to split, ready with the half-lie when he felt her fingers tighten through his.

“The Seeker would kill me if-” he murmured, with a small smile. Her hand was warm, the simple touch easing the aches that lingered from the long trek from Haven.

“She probably would,” Milliara agreed, leading him through the crowd once more. Solas was sure that he had caught a glimpse of a small curl of a smile, a flush of her cheeks before she’d turned away from him. He followed behind, fingers still twined with hers. It was merely a method to keep close to her in the crowd, he told himself. It was not because of how warm her skin felt on his. Any thrum he felt in his pulse was from the Mark, the presence of the Fade, rather than from-

“This one,” she said, tugging him forward along the pier to a rather sad looking boat. The sail was tattered, half-hearted looped up to its mast, the boat as a whole listing hard to one side. It seemed as though it was more likely to sink to the bottom of the harbor than to be occupied, Solas thought.

“Herald…?” He asked, suddenly confused as she tugged him further along. This wasn’t making sense, why was she leading him towards an abandoned boat in an otherwise bustling harbour? Solas glanced over his shoulder, noticing that the crowds had already started to thin, the sailors making their way further into the city to spend their hard earned cash, while the Herald led him forward into a half-rotten boat.

“It’s inside,” she said, letting go of his hand. She hopped onto the listing boat, making it bob precariously in the water. A glance over her shoulder was all that she spared him, before she disappeared below decks in a flash of silver hair.

Solas frowned, unsure if he should follow at first, but when she didn’t return to view after a minute, Solas swallowed the reservations he had and followed her onto the boat. It smelled of brine and old wood, infused with decades of spice that the ship had transported in its lifetime. The wood had silvered where it faced the elements, and Solas couldn’t help but run his fingers along the doorjamb as he followed the Herald down.

His eyes adjusted quickly in the murky darkness. Were her hair darker, her skin less than painfully white, he might have walked right into her. Instead, he stopped just behind her, watching her pale form curiously as she knelt in front of a dark sconce.

“I’ve seen things like this before,” she said, exploring the wrought iron with her hands. “It’s got some old elven inscribed on it… but…” She turned to look at him over her shoulder. She hesitated a moment, and Solas reached out a hand to touch the inscription for himself.

“I can’t read most of it,” she admitted quietly. “The Keeper, she would know. But I was just a hunter, I wasn’t supposed to learn how to read. I… I thought you might know what it said. What it was for.”

Solas almost laughed. He’d been so caught up in being alone with her that he had forgotten she’d asked him to look into something for her. The only thing that kept the huffed chuckle from turning bitter was the lingering heat on his skin where she’d held his hand in her own.

“It’s for veilfire,” he said, gently taking her finger and guiding it along one of the inscribed words. He sounded them out as they went. It was hard not to press his cheek against hers, to whisper into her ear so that his lips brushed against the peak of her earlobe.

“Veilfire is magic fire that was often used by ancient elves to light their buildings, but also to uncover their secrets.” He guided her hand back and gestured at the sconce, breathing life into the dormant fire inscribed there. He hesitated for a moment before he let his other hand slip around her back resting against the curve of her waist. He moved slowly, watching her in the darkness for any sign of disapproval.

When he was sure that she wasn’t going to cut his throat, Solas took her hand, gesturing with it to activate the spell to light the sconce.

The cabin lit with a soft green glow, catching on the Herald’s wide eyes, cupping the curve of her cheekbones and swoop of her nose. He watched the flicker of light play across her face, wondering how he’d ever thought she wasn’t beautiful. Had he been blinded by so long away from the world? She might have not been some world renowned goddess, but what he saw now came from within.

Normally so closed off, to hardened and broken, Solas watched as her expression bloomed into childlike wonder.

“It… it’s  _green_ ,” she whispered, watching the fire closely. He could feel her tense, and Solas started to withdraw, unsure if it was the fire or his touch that had bothered her. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” Solas said, focused more on her expression than the fire he’d lit. She was _radiant_.

“Solas, I’ve… I’ve _seen_ this before,” she whispered, turning to look at him. The sight of her stole his breath. She was not merely beautiful in this light, but radiant. Pale skin light by the veilfire glowed in the mildewed cabin… wait.

“You have?” he asked, frowning slightly. The first time he’d met her, he had lit the guiding fires to lead her away from the dangers of the fade. Had she remembered? He still thought of the way she had looked at him through the maelstrom of spirits that night. He had thought he was safe, hidden enough that she hadn’t been able to recognize him, but if she remembered the veilfires… would she remember _him_?

“After the conclave exploded,” she whispered, looking back at the fire. But he could tell that she wasn’t _seeing_ it, but rather seeing what he had lit for her that night. “I thought it had just been a dream but there was fire like this, leading me away from the…” She paused, and he felt her shudder. Carefully he tightened his arms around her. Waiting, as always for any sign of disagreement. Instead, Solas’s breath caught as he was rewarded with her body softening into his, leaning into him for support.

“I thought I was going to die,” she whispered. “I was so sure. But fire like this, lead me to a safe space where I could rest.” She took a breath, so deep that he felt it against his chest. Solas closed his eyes, committing the feeling to memory. So that when they left this boat, when the world reverted to its normal state where she half hated him, he could remember the way her breath sounded. The way her hair smelled and the heat of her skin.

“It is an ancient art that the elves perfected,” he said, trying not to focus on the fact his lips were so close to her ear, her neck. “But it was not their art alone. I would not be surprised if there was a spirit that had decided that you were worth saving.”

She was quiet for a while, watching the fire silently. Just as he was about to present the box to her, she cleared her throat.

“What if they were wrong?” She asked, her voice raw. Solas let go of her hand, gently catching her chin. He tilted it so she had to look at him. Her eyes were brimming, and he was at once confused and angry. Who had made this woman think she wasn’t worth saving?

“They weren’t,” he said firmly. “You are worth saving.” He was lost, Solas knew, the moment he looked at her. The way she was so painfully fragile, but still so strong… to see her like this cut into him more deeply than he’d thought possible.

“How do you know?” she asked, looking down. “You don’t know me, you don’t know what I’ve done in my life.”

“I know,” he said firmly. He could feel the words backing up at his tongue, ready to spill out. “I know, because I was the one that asked the spirits to guide you to safety that night.” A lie, but so close to the truth that it would be easy to believe it himself.

“You…” she said, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“I. I didn’t know you at the time,” He said, taking her hand and placing the box into it. “But now that I do, I can confidently say that you are worth saving. You could have left the evening of my mistake, but you didn’t. You could have denounced the Inquisition when it claimed you were the Herald of their Andraste, but you haven’t. You could have capitalized on the Chantry’s loss of the Templars today, but you chose to help the Mother to her feet.”

He smiled, watching her face as she swallowed hard.

“You,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips to place a gentle kiss on her knuckles. “Are worth saving. And I do not regret staying with the Inquisition for a moment, if only because it has allowed me to get to know you better.”

 “Is… that why did you kissed me?” She asked.

“If there is a single thing I regret when it comes to you,” Solas said, “It was that I acted impulsively and damaged your trust of me. Every time I see you, I hate myself that much more for blindly acting as I did.” Solas frowned, focusing instead on the box that he’d put into her hands.

“I meant why did you do it in the first place?” She asked, looking down at the gift for the first time.

Why? Because he’d smelled the flowers, because instinct still ruled even the oldest and most calm of creatures.

“Because you move with a grace that would make _water_ envious, your perseverance is something to be admired, and I… I lost myself in a moment,” Solas said. He watched her as he spoke, wanting… no,  _needing,_  to see her reaction. “I misread you, and for that I am forever sorry,” he whispered. “I would give most anything to go back and to stop myself. A kiss shouldn’t be taken like that… it should be freely given. Shared.” He looked down at where his hand still tangled their fingers with hers. While he knew that he’d like nothing more than to hold her tight, to taste her lips again, Solas never wanted to see that look in her eye again.

Fear. Anger. Distrust. Twisted emotions that he’d never meant to cause.

“I am so… sorry,” he whispered, shaking his head slowly. “So-“

He felt her turn, and he had only a moment’s breath to look at her before her lips find the corner of his lips. A kiss that hesitated in being intimate, bit that lingered a heartbeat… two… longer than one of friendship. Solas let his eyes close, leaning into the affection.

“I know you were…. are,” she whispered, lips brushing his skin. For a moment she stayed close, but he felt her breath catch, and she stepped back from him.

“Wait,” he breathed, catching her arm.

Solas stepped forward, pulling her tight against him. Her lips were hot against his. Even without the taste of honey, her lips were sweeter than the last time as they parted under his to let out a small sound of surprise.

“Should-“ he gasped, lips brushing hers. “Should I st-“ he managed before he felt her hands grab his tunic, pulling him back to her. Solas groaned against her lips, his skin feverishly hot. She smelled like the world; earth and oil and metal and the Fade. Heady already, she smelled even better in the small confines of the boat’s mildewed cabin.

He let his lips wander from hers, trailing along her jaw in an effort to taste as much of her as he could. Hand in her hair, Solas let his fingers tangle in the braids she wore, his thumb brushing gently along the flare of her ear.

“Wait,” she whispered as his lips found her ear. Solas leaned his forehead against her temple, feeling the rush of his blood through his face, through his whole body. He didn’t want to stop, he wanted to taste all of her, to explore and learn what sounds she made under what kind of touch…

“Yes?” he asked, squeezing his eyes shut. His lips were against her ear, his hand in her hair. “Should I stop?”

He felt her gulp, more than he heard it. Her whole body shuddering as she tried to regain some control over herself. One of her hands cupped the back of his skull, and rested there. The other pressed aginst his chest, as if to push him away.

Neither moved, and Solas could hear his pulse hammering, urging him on.

He swallowed hard, and took a step back, letting her go.

“I…” she whispered, the hand on the back of his neck slipped down to rest on his chest. Solas watched her as the Herald looked at her hands, then away at the floor.

“I shouldn’t have,” he whispered. A kiss, so simple and so freely given in most lifetimes had felt so different when tempered by the knowledge that it was  _her_ choice.  Hers, as she’d pulled him away from the others. Hers as she’d leaned in.

“No, I… I wanted-“ she whispered. “I want-“

Her voice began to fade. Solas frowned. No, it was too early, he wasn’t ready yet.

“Wait,” she whispered, reaching out to pull him back to her, but as her fingers were about to touch him, Solas felt himself pulled back into his body. The bedroll under his side was hard, the ground underneath cold compared to the heat of her skin.

“Solas…?” She asked, only her voice and her tasted left.  Varric’s snoring soon drowned out the last whispers of her, leaving only the honeyed tea of her lips, and the memory of how she’d felt against him as Solas rolled onto his side.

He had not expected to find her in the fade… not expected to dream of such a bold approach to her. But even still, as sweet as the memory of her lips was, he was left with an ache in his pants, hot and hard in a way that he hadn’t experienced in…

Solas groaned, pressing his forehead against the ground.

…far too long.

“Fade preserve me,” he whispered, sucking in his lower lip, as if he would be still able to taste her. But dreams, even those in the Fade, even those when joined by the Herald herself, were just dreams… and he was left with only the taste of his own lips instead of hers.

He heard a sound outside the tent, rustling and footsteps. Swallowing hard, Solas pushed himself up to peer through the slit between the tent's flaps. In the moonlight, he saw her emerge from the tent she shared with the Seeker, hair disheveled and cheeks dark with a blush.

Milliara was wearing only a loose shirt, her bare legs nearly as white as the cotton that stopped at her mid thighs. She paced between the tents, fingers touched to her lips. 

Solas watched, wondering if it had been truly her in the dream, or if a spirit had decided to play a trick on him. It was only as she stopped in front of his tent and looked at it, that Solas felt his belly clench at the way her lips had parted against her fingers.

It had been her. He was sure of it.


	12. Ghosts in the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Storm coast isn't adding to anyone's good mood, and Solas finds himself confused and frustrated at the addition of two new companions to the Inquisition. One, the Qunari, openly admits to being a spy for the Qun. The other is grating, although she may be the key to learning more about who the Herald is, and why she is terrifyingly good at killing things.

The wind was vicious, a living thing that whipped cold rain into one’s face and cutting through soaked clothing as though it was gossamer. The sky was grey, the rocks were grey, and so was the sea. Grey, except for  _her_  eyes.

Things had only gotten worse since she started dreaming about him. About Val Royeaux. He knew he should stay away, that it was dangerous to let himself get too close to her. Yet in a place such as the storm coast, when everything was grey and bleak… she was the lone point of colour.

“So,” a deep voice rumbled from behind the apostate, and a heavy hand landed onto Solas’s shoulder. “What’s the Boss’s story?”  

Aside from the more ‘colourful’ companions that had just joined their ranks over the last month. Solas looked up at the Herald’s most recent addition. The massive one-eyed Qunari spy. It was… hard to understand her reasoning for allowing the Ben Hassarath to join, but so much of what she did still remained a mystery to him.

“Her story is her story,” Solas said, adjusting the hood that kept off the worst of the rain. The Qunari laughed and patted his shoulder again. Then he stretched, putting each shovellike hand on his hips and cracking his back.

“Ahh so you don’t know,” Iron Bull said, letting out a rumble of a laugh. “You coulda just said that. Unless it bothers you that she won’t tell you?”  

The Apostate narrowed his eyes slightly at Iron Bull and said nothing.  At first, Solas had thought the giant man had been lying,  pretending he was a spy to get a better payment from the Inquisition… but the more the Qunari talked, the more Solas wondered if he had been telling the truth after all.

Although she dreamt of him, Milliara refused to talk about herself. Any hint of her past was eradicated in the Fade with a ruthless efficiency and a control that any non-mage shouldn’t have possessed.

 “OY, grouch face, big man! Glowy Elf says ten minutes left of sulking then we’re leaving without you!”

“We’re not sulking,” Bull bellowed over his shoulder at the  _other_  new addition. “We’re talkin’ about man stuff.”

Solas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was hard to remember that the elves that grew up in cities were young, unaware of the lives that their ancestors had once had. While usually they were more open to discussion than the Dalish, this one in particular was… trying.

“Blurgh,” Sera made a retching sound. “What, like about dangly bits or who can piss farther in the wind? gross.”

“Iron Bull,” Solas said, “If you want to know the Herald’s story, Sera would be your best bet.” And it would keep the two new companions busy with each other during the walk down towards turning away from the coast.

“Huh…” Bull said. “They don’t seem to get along that well.”

No, Solas thought. They didn’t get along that well. But the grudging acceptance of each other was better than the first meeting in Orlais.

**

“Ah the Inqui-“ the Nobleman stopped, his mouth dropping as he spotted the Herald. Solas frowned, pulling a spell to his lips, ready to let the inferno fly. “It’s true! And here I thought it might have just been ramblings of drunkards.”

“Herald?” Varric asked, his crossbow trained on the Orlesian man. “Do you know his guy?” \

A quick glance told Solas everything he needed to know. Milliara stood, knives loose in her hands with a horrified look on her face. Her normally pale face had gone white, the vallaslin looked like slashes of black over her skin in contrast.

Next to her, Cassandra stood, sword and shield at the ready, although the Seeker’s face held a level of compassion that Solas hadn’t known the woman was capable of.

“After so many years,” The nobleman laughed. “What did you think would-”

“Deadmen say what.” A figure stepped out of the shadows, and Solas watched in surprise as the Nobleman turned, catching an arrow in the face. The noble crumpled in place, the arrow sticking out from an eye. Whatever he had been able to say was gone.

“Blah blah blah,” A young elfish woman walked out of the shadows and over to the body. She leaned down and yanked the arrow free. “Obey me! Arrow in my face!” She laughed, wiping the arrow’s tip  on her legging before putting it back into the quiver she wore.

“Right, You glow, right? You’re the Herald thingy,” She said, walking up to Milliara.

“Oh, you’re … and elf,” the young woman said, face wrinkling in disappointment. “What, with the face and. Wait.” She stepped back, tilting her head first one way, then the other.

“Herald? Do you know  _this_  one?” Varric asked.

“Piss buckets! You’re the Ghost!” The woman said, eyes getting wide.

Solas stepped forward, throwing a barrier around the Herald out of instinct. This woman didn’t seem quite right, and he wasn’t going to let some lost child hurt Mi- the Herald. The click of Varric’s crossbow being winched into place reassured him that he wasn’t the only one with such concerns.

“Varric, put Bianca down,” Milliara said, reaching out and resting the back of her hand against Solas’s arm. Had she felt the spell? How could that be, unless the Anchor on her hand reacted to any magic being cast?

“You bloody are!” the elf woman crowed, “Heard you were dead! Gone for good, but here you are in Orlais! I want in. Whatever it is you’re running, I’m in. I was going to be in with just the glow, but now you’re the ghost  _and_  the Herald thingy?” The woman whistled. “I guess it’s alright if you’re a bit elfy, long as you’re not…  _too_  elfy. What with the face, and all.”

“Herald…?” Varric said slowly. “Care to enlighten us on who your new friend is?”

“Sera,” The young elf said.

“I’ve never met her,” Milliara said with a small sigh. Her hand lingered slightly where it pressed against Solas, but not nearly long enough. She sheathed both her knives and crossed her arms over her stomach, as if she were cold. The muscles in her shoulders

“I know some of her friends though, at least… the friends of Red Jenny. It’s a long story, not one I want to talk about.”

“Why not?” Sera asked. “You were legend!  ‘Ghost of the ‘Graves’, puttin’ fear into the wallets of pissfaces and knives into the backs of arsehead nobles.”

“Of the Graves?” Solas asked, looking over at Milliara. He had wondered where she was from, perhaps more than was healthy, but this Sera’s story seemed like  a half-conceived child’s story.

“Right, Emerald ones,” Sera said with a grin. “So. Where’re we off to?”

**

Nightfall brought no respite from the rain, but did, thankfully from the incessant chatter of Sera. As soon as the new camp had been set up, she had crawled into a tent muttering about shit weather and shittier clouds.

Solas nodded to the massive Qunari who sat by the fire, sheltered from the rain by a series of oiled canvas tarps. Bull grunted in greeting, but made no move to speak. Instead, he just gestured with his impressive horns towards the path that led up the rocky cliffs.

The way was treacherous, water streaming over slick rock in a myriad of little waterfalls. Carefully Solas picked his way up the path, unwilling to rush and misstep. He would be of little use to the Herald if he twisted a foot, or fell and impaled himself on the Qunari’s horns below.

Away from the camp, the rain fell harder, turning from a steady drizzle to a downpour. Below, Solas heard Ironbull curse loudly, though what the words actually were, were lost in the roar of the rain.  Ahead, there was a small, soaked figure standing, and looking out at the ocean.

Her hand, faintly glowing in the darkness. A beacon that he followed towards her. 

“Herald, is… company alright?” He asked, although he was closer to shouting to be heard over the rain. She turned, silver hair plastered to her skin, her armor left behind at the camp and in just a woolen shirt and leggings, Solas was struck by how… _small_ she looked. In the months since he’d first met her, the softness had been worn from her, leaving strong arms and a lean form.

Solas swallowed, focusing on her eyes as he approached her.

“But… it’s raining,” she said, looking up at him. Solas couldn’t help the smile as he sat next to her, resting his staff alongside him.

“Was it?” he teased. “I thought the storm coast was merely an ironic name.” He blinked water from his eyes, almost missing the flash of a smile his joke had brought to her face.

“Did… you just make a joke?” she asked, fidgeting with the lacing of her shirt, the dark blue of the coarse material making her seem that much more of a ghost. Only she wasn’t, the flush of pink on her nose and lips told him that the cold was getting to her, despite the fact that she didn’t shiver, or complain.

“I’ve been known to do such things on occasion,” he said, unhooking his cloak and holding out one side of it for her. As always, he waited for her to choose whether or not to take his offer. Although, a deep thought in the back of his mind wondered if she would complain if he kissed her this time. After she’d dreamed about it in Val Royeaux.

Milliara looked at the cloak before she scooted over, draping it around herself. The rain continued, but at least she was somewhat sheltered from it now, Solas thought. He was surprised at how warm she was, the heat radiating off her even in the storm.

Was it the Anchor? Or was she always this warm?

“May I ask you a question, Herald?” He said, looking at the way the water formed rivulets down her cheeks, tracing along the slightly raised vallaslin that marked her as a worshipper of June. His fingers itched, wishing to reach out and wipe it clean, as though the rain might rinse out the ink from her skin.

“Aside from that one?” She said, glancing back at him. She smiled again, and it was smaller than the one he had almost missed moments before, but it was… more substantial, if Solas read it correctly. Less fleeting, and from actual emotion.

“Did you just make a joke?” He echoed, actively resisting the urge to reach out for her chin, to cup it and kiss those rain slick lips.

He should have left once he realised she’d stabilised, back at Haven, Solas thought.

“I try, from time to time,” She said, smile fading to a small curl of her lips. He expected her to look away, to face back out at the sea that she had been watching intently. But she kept her eyes on his.

“I might not answer, but you can ask,” she clarified, and he caught the minute flick of her eyes down to his lips. He wondered if she was thinking about the kiss they’d shared in her dream, in the fade. He wondered how the rain tasted on her lips, if it made them even sweeter.

“Our… companion, Sera, she said she knew you,” Solas said, he could feel her muscles tense, her posture shifting under the shared cloak. She looked away, and Solas wondered if he had once again ruined… whatever this was.

A chance at knowledge, a chance to learn who she was.

“She knew _of_ me,” Milliara said after a long moment. “You want to know why she called me the ghost?” She snuck a glance up at him, one so quick that he might have missed it, had he not been watching her still.

“I want to know about you,” Solas clarified. “You surprise me in ways I had not thought possible. You show temperance in the face of hardship, cautious wisdom against overwhelming odds and a perseverance that I find remarkable.”

He was rewarded with watching her cheeks flush from pasty white to soft pink, matching the colour of her nose.

“I made mistakes,” Milliara said quietly. “I tried to fix them, even just a bit, but…” she fell quiet. Solas waited, wondering if that was what had stirred his interest at first. The drive to make things Right. A drive that mirrored his own.

He reached for her nearest hand, taking it gently in his.

“I don’t know what mistakes you’ve made,” Solas said, running his tumb over her knuckles. Milliara looked up at him, the heavy rain catching on her eyelashes. Solas swallowed, wondering at how she was able to make him forget words with just a look.

“But that you would try to fix them, is admirable. You give me hope for the Dalish, if they were able to produce a woman such as you, I have misjudged them.” He pressed his lips to her knuckles, tasting rain and the heat of her skin. In the storm, he couldn’t smell her, but he didn’t need to. The air was full of salt and rain and earth, but his eyes were full of Her.

“Solas…” she said, voice nearly lost in the rain’s roar. “I wasn’t raised by the Dalish. I….” she trailed off, reaching up with her free hand to touch the vallaslin on her face.

“whoever raised you,” Solas clarified. He swallowed.

“May I?” he asked, leaning in slightly. He wanted to taste her lips so badly. It would complicate his position in the inquisition, but out on the Coast, away from Haven, away from the Breach and the Chantry, drenched in rain, Solas found it difficult to find a reason not to ask.

He watched as Milliara swallowed, looking at his lips, then up at his eyes. The slight fear was there, in the tension under her eyelids, and Solas expected her to let go of his hand and stand, leaving him in the chilled rain.

“Yes,” she whispered, and were her lips not so close, Solas woudn’t have heard a thing but the rain. He let go of her hand, his own slipping up along her jaw to reach into her rain-soaked hair, feeling the warmth of her skin under his palm as he brought his lips down to hers.

She tasted like rain, her lips hot against his. Solas closed his eyes, living in the moment of her lips, the way her hands slipped up aginst his chest, but this time to pull him closer to her. Her fingers curling into the wet wool of his tunic.

He could taste the soft moan in her throat as it passed her lips, and it was only reluctantly that he pulled back from her.

“You are…” he murmured, only to feel her press a finger to his lips.

“Solas,” she murmured. “Please don’t, just… let me enjoy this right now. Before you find out.” Her lips were on his again, hot and soft.

Before he found out? Solas normally would have been too curious about what he was going to learn to be distracted, but her lips had this… way…

Her fingers slipped up to cup the nape of his neck, and Solas wrapped his arms around her, pulling her up and into his lap.

Finding out could wait. She was here, and this was he waking world. All he cared about right now was the way she tasted, the way she felt in his arms. 


	13. An Impossible Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition is growing, but without support from Orlesian nobles, the movement is doomed to fail. Leliana and Josie have been working tirelessly to gain support, but they are blocked at every turn by the Grand Baron Frederique. The Inquisition has something he wants, and he will risk Thedas itself to be sure he gets it.
> 
> The news splits the advisors, and forces Milliara to make an impossible choice. Will she choose to save the Inquisition at the risk of her own happiness? Or will she doom Thedas to keep the Grand Baron at bay?

They were arguing across the war table, the same points over and over and neither side willing to step back.

Milliara watched from where she stood, hidden in the corner of the room. Emotionally numb, it was as if they were talking about someone else. That she wasn’t the one that Leliana and Cassandra were arguing over. If it were about someone else, maybe the decision would be easier to make. As it was, either option was unthinkable.

“You cannot ask her to do this!” Cassandra shouted, slamming her palms down on the war table hard enough to rattle the army markers, and make one tip over. Next to her, Josie jumped in surprise, clutching her tablet close to her chest. Pinned there was the letter that had started this argument.

“You cannot. We are not _monsters_ , Leliana,” Cassandra said, her face flushed with anger. “I will not allow it!”

“What choice do we have?” the spymaster asked, her arms bracing her against the table. In the face of the Seeker’s fire, Leliana was cold. Icy eyes met Cassandra’s from under Leliana’s cowl, and didn’t waver even as the Seeker snarled.

“All of them! _Any_ of them, but this!” Cassandra shouted. “There has to be another way. Treaties, alliances, promise of support.”

“We have _tried_ , Lady Cassandra,” Josephine said, her voice soft, trying to soothe the two tempers in the room. “He resists all other overtures. I’ve sent gifts, I’ve appealed to his brother as well, but he is obstinate in this one matter.”

Milliara watched the Seeker glare at Josie, and heard the tiny ‘eep’ that the ambassador tried to swallow.

“Well,” Cassandra growled. “Blackmail him. Kill him. Replace him. There has to be another option.”

“As much as I would like to,” Leliana said slowly, biting off the end of each word. “We can’t. He is too closely affiliated with the Grand Duke. To play the Game so overtly would be to turn the remaining nobles against us. And thus, we would be worse off than we are now.”

Letting out a growl of frustration, Cassandra backhanded a marker of the Orlesian from the table. It flew into the door with a thud, and fell to the floor.

They fell quiet, each woman lost in her own thoughts. The silence was heavy, and Milliara was sure that with each breath, the weight of it was suffocating her. She swallowed, looking up to see three pairs of eyes looking at her. Waiting on her decision. Milliara desperately wished that one of them would make it for her, so she could hate them.

“I-” she gasped, feeling the silence stuff her throat, choking her. The walls were pushing in on her, the previous numbness shifting to a slow-burn panic. “I need to think,” She said, stumbling past them towards the door.

“Millie,” Cassandra said, “you can’t possible agree to this.” She reached out to take Milliara’s arm. But a touch, any contact with another person, would shatter the tenuous hold Milliara had on herself. She flinched away, ducking under the comforting gesture and fumbled at the door.

“She has to,” Leliana murmured.

“I’m sorry, a day, just give me a day,” She whispered, stumbling through the door as it opened unexpectedly under her hands.

She fell into something hard, and hands reached out to steady her.

“Herald?” Fur smells and oiled leather. Metal and outside smells. Hands that felt like lead on her arms. Meant only to help, their touch was enough to cave in the remaining composure.

Milliara planted her foot and _shoved_ the arms away. The Commander stumbled back into the hallway. The sounds were already far away as the Herald sprinted down the Hall of the chantry, needing to be outside before the cloying inside air choked her.

By the time she was through the Chantry’s doors, she’d pulled the shadows around her and disappeared from sight.

 


	14. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen's trust in the inquisition and the Herald are shaken when he finds out what they have been keeping from him. Or is it that he is hurt that they held no trust in him?

Cullen stared at the doors that the Herald had just run through. His first instinct was to run after her, to ask what was wrong, what had happened. But before he had a chance, she had disappeared from sight. It was something he had heard the troops talk about her doing in the field, but until now, he’d never seen it firsthand. It seemed that the Herald very much did not want to be found.

“Are you alright Commander?” Leliana asked, poking her head out with a slight smile. Cullen noticed that it didn’t reach her eyes. “I didn’t realise that you were so easily knocked over.”

“I…” He said, flustered. He was still worried for her, both as the figure head of the Inquisition as as a… as a _friend_. Cullen brushed himself off, glancing one last time at the chantry’s doors. He tried not to think of how red his ears were getting.

“She’s stronger than she looks,” he said crouching to pick up the clip board she had knocked from him on her way by. As he was about to stand, he spotted a bent Orlesian marker on the floor. He stepped into the war room, and scooped it up.

“Dare I ask what I missed?” He looked at the three grim faces in front of him, certain that Cassandra was going to start yelling at him. He had heard commotion on the way to the war room, but words had been too muffled to make much sense of it.

Instead, Cassandra leaned her forearms on the table, and rested her head on them with a sigh. Josephine’s lips were trembling as looked down at her ever-present clipboard, and Leliana crossed her arms, the smile replaced with a scowl. None of these were what he had come to expect from the women, and the creeping worry started to gain traction.

“What happened?” He asked, more firmly this time. “If I am going to lead the army of this Inquisition, I need to know what threats we face.”

Cassandra pushed herself up enough to look at Leliana, who shrugged.

“Should she not be the one to explain?” Josephine asked quietly, looking from one woman to the other. “For such a personal matter it would be unkind-“

“Josie, we don’t have time to worry about kindness,” Leliana said. “She has gone, and we do not know if she will return at all.”

“She’ll come back,” Cullen said, frowning at the Spymaster. “Why leave now, when she stayed after the breach was sealed?” He closed the door behind him, locking it with a click to prevent unwelcome visitors.

Again, the women exchanged glances. Cullen grit his teeth in frustration.

“Just-“

“The Grand Baron Frederique Richelieu of Orlais, the second cousin to the Empress, is blocking any alliances with Orlesian nobles.” Josephine interrupted him, her voice oddly flat. She didn’t look up at him, instead choosing to stare at the map of Orlais.

“Is that why they haven’t joined us?” Cullen asked, looking over at her with a frown. The Ambassador glanced at him, and gave a sad shrug.

“Until his request is met, he will continue to prevent any meaningful ties with the Inquisition,” Josephine continued with a heavy sigh.

“Well, then what does he want?” Cullen snapped. “Why can’t we just give it to him, there’s a hole in the sky that needs us all to fix it. Money, men, what is so important that we can’t part with it?” What was so important that Mi- the Herald would run from a meeting?

“His son,” Leliana said, looking at him through half lidded eyes. “He wants his son.”

Cullen waited, both confused and caught off guard. When no further explanation came, he cleared his throat.

“Is… he… _serving_ with us?” He asked, hesitating.

“No,” Cassandra said, pushing herself up straight. She sighed, and looked up at him. Cullen was caught off guard by the pain on her face. But it was more than that, it was sadness too. Her voice was rougher than normal, but she straightened her back and squared her shoulders, pushing down whatever had caught in her throat down.

“Milliara knows where he is, but she will not be eager to share that with the Grand Baron,” Cassandra said. “That is probably where she is headed now, to move him somewhere else, somewhere safer. Somewhere that we are not aware of.”

From the corner of his eye, Cullen saw Leliana nod.

“I could still find him, but to do so would alienate her from our cause, and it would take time that we do not have,” the spymaster said. “I will ask my agents to keep an eye out for her, and trail the boy until our forces can retrieve him.”

Cullen stared at her, trying to figure out why Milliara would have stolen an Orlesian nobleman’s son. What possible reason could she have had to kidnap a boy? And why was it so difficult to return him? Had the Baron hurt the child? Was he showing signs of magic? Had the Baron hurt Milliara’s clan, and this was retaliation?

“I don’t…” He started, looking at Josephine for more understanding.

“Because he is also _her_ son, Commander,” Josie said quietly. Cullen stared at her, feeling blood drain from his body to pool in his feet.

“Well we can’t let him take- I won’t allow- her son?” He stammered. Pieces were starting to fall into place now. A child explained the softness on her body when she’d first arrived at Haven, softness that had quickly melted away into muscle. Secretive meetings with the spymaster and a strange closeness with the Seeker.

“How long have you known?” He asked, looking from woman to woman. He couldn’t sort out what he was feeling. Immense pain at the thought of having to ask a friend to give up her son, betrayal that the other advisors hadn’t told him… and hurt that Milliara had not trusted him with such a huge secret.

“HOW LONG?!” He shouted, and Josephine winced. Later, he would feel bad for that. But later was later, and he didn’t have the emotional strength to care for her feelings right then.

“She told me when I first met her,” Cassandra said. “Leliana and I both. We weren’t sure she would survive the Breach, or the Anchor. The Herald- Milliara, she asked us to look after them iif she didn’t make it.”

“’Them’” Cullen echoed, wondering at how he could feel both pain and numb at the same time. “Who else?”

“A daughter,” Leliana said, voice shifting to bitterness. “One that the Grand Baron does _not_ care to be retrieved. I believe he thought the child was lost when our Herald stole away her son.”

Two… two children and he hadn’t- he’d never asked about her family. Not once in the many nights spent training. He had told himself that he was only being professional, keeping to martial and Inquisitorial matters.

Cullen turned and shoved the door. It clanged, still locked from earlier. He snarled to himself, and yanked the bolt out of place.

“Leliana, sent one of your agents to meet me with the information needed to find her and her children,” he snapped, and shoved the door open.

“Commander, you can’t force her to give up her _child_ ,” Cassandra said behind him. Cullen turned and looked at them each, one by one.

“I’m not going to. I’m going to offer a compromise and talk some sense into that bloody Baron.” He slammed the door shut after him, stalking through the Chantry. Mother Giselle watched quietly, and Cullen snarled at himself silently.

How much had she heard? Would she be dedicated enough to the Inquisition that she wouldn’t tell the Chantry of such a weakness in the Herald’s life?

Maker’s breath, he wasn’t sure if his plan was going to work, or if it would just risk the Herald even further. But the only two other options were impossible. Without support from Orlais, the Inquisition would flounder, and he was not able to ask a woman that he- that he cared about to give up her children. Grand Baron or no.

He could think about the rest on the way out to… wherever she was going.


	15. Right Decisions, not Easy Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen's first instinct is to rush off and catch the Herald before she disappears for good. However, he makes a stop that he wishes he didn't feel obligated to. 
> 
> He tells Solas.

The sight of her running away had hurt more than it ought to have, Cullen realised, and slowed to a jog as reached the Apostate’s cabin. He had no  _right_  to feel hurt. The tentative friendship he’d built with the Herald extended to hitting each other when they couldn’t sleep. Conversation had never strayed from martial matters. He’d never asked why she’d been red eyed most nights, with tears stuck to her eye lashes. Maybe he should have.

Cullen felt a sudden pang of guilt, his hand hovering over the door of the elf. Would she hate him when he told her how he’d found out? Milliara had only told Cassandra in order to keep her children safe if she died at the Temple, doing everything she could to keep her children hidden and alive in a world that seemed to be ending.

Then they had asked her to give her children away. In the name of Thedas, in the name of the  _Inquisition_. Ten years ago he would have pushed aside any concerns and followed orders to return the children, but thank the Maker he was not the man he once was.

Cullen understood why she had run, he just wished... wished she hadn't. That she had stayed and talked to him about it, or stayed and let cooler heads prevail instead of racing off. Rushing  _away_  from h- from the Inquisition.

He swallowed the feelings down as he had grown accustomed to doing, and pounded on the Apostate’s door. He didn’t want to talk to this man, who had so few redeeming qualities, but Cullen knew that it was the Right thing to do.

If he let her get away, if never came back, the Inquisition would fail. As much as it was the child of Cassandra, Leliana and himself,  _Milliara_  had been the one to draw support. She had been chosen by Andraste and guided to them, and if she were to leave now, so too would their most recent recruits. So would the faith of so many of their people, Cullen’s… included.

The door opened shortly after, revealing a disgruntled looking Solas. The Elf’s frown deepened when he saw who was at the door. Normally Cullen would apologize out of habit, but there was no time. Every second spent here was one that she got further away.

“Is there a problem Commander?” Solas asked, and Cullen was sure he could hear a sniff of disapproval.

“The Herald has left,” Cullen said curtly. “Can you track the mark on her hand?” Even though the man should know she was gone, Cullen had to admit to himself that his reason for telling the elf wasn’t entirely altruistic.

“What do you mean she’s ‘left’?” Solas said, his eyes narrowing still further.

"They asked her to give…” Cullen began, but trailed off as he saw confusion start to grow on the elf’s face.  _He didn’t know_ , Cullen realised, and he took a step back. “Up something precious to her. Can you track the mark or no?”

Solas stepped forward, and Cullen had to fight the instinct to reach for his sword. Apostates could be dangerous, but so far this one had shown little inclination to cause problems. Still, old habits died hard sometimes.

“It is not some phylactery that I can use to find her,” Solas said, his lips twisting into a sneer. “Are you going to hunt her down for leaving?”

Cullen looked at the apostate. He debated punching the elf, but doing so would only waste time.

“I am going to convince her of a better way to resolve this issue,” Cullen said, voice clipped and cold. “If you are unable to help, then stay here until we return.”

"Why you?" Solas asked, and Cullen looked over his shoulder.

"Why are _you_ going? Seeker Pentaghast is close with her, or Leliana,” to his discomfort, Cullen watched Solas pick up his pack and staff that had rested by his door.

"Because I understand making hard choices that you know are right, but not comfortable. Ask Varric, I’m sure he'd be happy to tell you."

"And not because of how you look at her?” Solas asked, talking up to Cullen, standing just too close, looking him in the eye.

"I feel that I am best qualified to help our Herald return to the Inquisition," Cullen said sharply, feeling his chest ball up into a tangle. Did he look at her in a way that was inappropriate? Had he let her see the warmth she built in his chest, or the way he lost words at the sight of her?

Cullen cleared his throat.

“Regardless of how I feel about her as Milliara, the Inquisition needs the Herald,” he said, leading the way down to the stables. “Without her, we have no way to close the rifts, no way to seal the Breach for good. I hope that you are able to see that this is more than about how you or I might feel.” Not to mention that any thought of how _he_ felt paled to what Milliara would feel about the situation. What Cullen felt for her or didn’t, none of that mattered compared to the pain of a mother having to choose between her children and the good of the world.

They walked in silence for a while, the camp quiet around them. Words kept jumping up to his throat, only for Cullen to choke them back down again. If only they had known, if only they had been able to work through a better situation than… this.

“Commander, I must admit… I believe I have been wrong about you,” Solas said as they passed through the main gates of Haven. Cullen blinked, looking over at the elf.

“You were correct, the Inquisition needs her, and Thedas needs the Inquisition,” Solas continued. “I was wrong to assume that you had different reasons for finding her.”

Cullen nodded, but didn’t bother replying. He could tolerate the Apostate, but he doubted that they would ever become more than cordial.

It was a relief to see Leliana waiting at the stables,  two horses saddled and waiting for them. His own courser stamped at the snow anxiously, eager to get out for a ride. She raised an eyebrow at the sight of Solas but let it drop at a small shake of Cullen’s head.

“She’s taken the horse Master Dennet gave her,” Leliana said, glancing between the two men. “Headed into Orlais. I’ll have my agents meet you at the road into the Exalted Plains. We believe she will head there before moving on again.”

Cullen nodded, and swung up into the saddle. His fingers checked for the familiar box he kept in the right saddlebag and felt an immense relief when he felt the familiar shape there. He hadn’t used any in months, but it would be impossible to think if he knew it wasn’t at hand.

“Why the Plains?” Solas asked, climbing onto the mare Leliana had for him. The Spymaster looked at the Apostate, then at Cullen with raised eyebrows.

“She didn’t tell him?” Leliana asked, glancing back at Solas. “I’m not sure I should be the one, it would be best if you catch up to her before she gets to the camp in the Plains, I think.”

“If anything changes, send word,” Cullen said, and guided his horse onto the road from Haven. Rather than gallop away, Cullen urged his stallion into a distance eating canter. Her horse could only keep up a gallop for so long before it would need to rest. He'd find her, hopefully before she did something she would regret. Or something that they would all regret. As for Solas… if he fell behind it would be his own fault.

They rode in silence for hours, leaving Cullen alone with his thoughts. It was, he realised, a mistake to bring Solas with him. Something this important should have been kept to as few people as possible, but the urge to do the Right thing had gotten the upper hand again. At times he wished he could be as careless about Right and Wrong as the elf. It would be easy to tell Milliara that the flowers were from him, not the elf. Easy to ask her one night about what she had been crying about the first night she’d joined his practice and take advantage of her vulnerability to develop a bond.

It would be easy to do, but impossible to live with, he realised. Even if no one else would fault him, Cullen knew he’d hate himself. More, that is. He had done enough that was wrong in his life, he wouldn’t be able to live with something more on his conscience.

Cullen bit the inside of his cheek, using the pain to focus on the task at hand. The thought of losing... someone like Milliara was hard to swallow, but the thought of losing the Inquisition's desperately needed support was worse. Maker knew how much blood had been spilled in the war between Mages and Templars, and how much more would be lost if the rifts were allowed to consume Thedas.

Then, more men, more women... Maker... even children would suffer the same as he had. Corrupted and tortured until they couldn't stand it any longer.

As for how he felt about the Herald, how he _looked_ at her... Cullen knew he would have too long to think about it while he chased after her. Unfortunately while he was with the elf that had been able to melt her exterior shell far better than he had.

The first time he'd seen her, half dead and wavering on her feet, Cullen knew he was in trouble. Silver hair matted with demons blood and some of her own, he's looked into her eyes and seen something there that echoed in his heart. A thump of recognition, a familiarity and a strangeness that left him breathless.

Apparently, he hadn't been the only one.

At first, Cullen had thought maybe he would have a chance. Jim had told him about the ill-advised kiss outside Solas's cabin, to much laughter of the troops. But then, gossip started. Cullen had done what he could to curb it, but he couldn't help but hear how Solas had helped cure the Herald from some grievous injury or other. Or how she had run to him, thinking he was struck down by a bear.

It turned his stomach to think about, but he couldn't  _stop_  thinking about it. He dreamt of the demons whispering lies into Mil- the Herald's ear, of the Apostate slipping his fingers though her hair. Pulling her further away, putting her at risk. It was insane, but he couldn't stop it.

Cullen grit his teeth and tried to shake off the persistent image of her in the elf's arms.

After this, after he found her and they resolved the issue with the Orlesian Baron, Cullen would write to a man he knew would understand. Or at least listen without laughing. Much. Alistair would know how to deal with this kind of helplessness, although... Alistair had managed to marry the woman he loved. Perhaps it wouldn't be a good idea to talk to him after all.   

The sun had risen, before one of them spoke.

“Commander, will you not tell me what she’s trying to protect?” Solas asked, their horses slowed to a walk to rest. “Or would you prefer to keep that information to yourself out of spite?”

Cullen glanced over at the elf and felt his eyes narrow in annoyance. Did he still think that this was all a competition for her?

“Her children, Solas,” Cullen said bluntly. “She’s trying to save her children.” The look of shock on the elf’s face was almost worth the days of his company that were yet to come.

“She-” The normally articulate mage stammered, his normal scowl replaced by confusion.

“That is why we need to catch up to her, before she does something to make this situation worse.” Cullen spurred his horse into a trot. They’d soon be crossing into Orlais, where they could pay for fresh horses and continue on.

 _Merciful Andraste, Milliara don’t disappear,_ Cullen prayed silently. _We need you. Thedas needs you._

 

 

 


	16. In Sacrifice...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With only Cullen as his travelling companion, Solas can't resist needling at the commander. Why is the man so desperate to get the Herald? What does he expect to gain?
> 
> Cullen regrets telling Solas about Milliara with every sentence the elf speaks. It's a herculean effort to not punch the Apostate in the face. Will he find her before it's too late, and she does something she'll regret?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language note: 'Lapine' means female rabbit in french/Orlesian.

Solas rode in silence, too lost in thought to pay much attention to the Commander who led the way. While part of him wanted to pick the Commander’s brain about the state of the Inquisition, and of the Herald, Solas knew that to do so would be fruitless. Cullen was just as concerned as he was, if not more so.

The longer they rode, the more certain Solas was that he’d made a mistake in coming.  _Children_. She had children. All at once the softness of her when she’d walked out of the fade made sense. It wasn’t from a life of leisure or laziness… but childbirth.

Children. And he’d thought of her as nothing more than an enigma to tease apart and examine. One he felt strangely protective over, and one that stirred odd feelings in his chest… but other than that, Solas knew that at any moment he could have walked away without a glance back. Milliara had been a mystery, not a person.

But now…

Guilt rose up in the back of his throat, and Solas watched the back of the Commander in front of him. A former Templar, but a Man that had left the Mage-killers behind… was Cullen a good man, or was he hiding his selfishness just as he did? There was so much that the Herald could offer a man like Cullen. Prestige, power, and legitimacy to a movement was based in the cult of some supposed saint.

“You were a Templar, were you not?” Solas asked eventually. The sun was setting on the second day, and he had thought they would find her by now. But then, if Sera was right, their Herald had a knack for vanishing into thin air.

“Yes,” the commander said. Solas watched the man’s back, the way his shoulders were straight, the ruff of fur that hid the back of his neck.  “I was.” Cullen looked back at him briefly before returning his eyes to the road ahead.

“How many mages did you kill, because they didn’t conform to your Chantry’s rules?” Solas asked, needling the Commander. He was rewarded with a change in the man’s posture. The straight spine curved slightly, and Cullen’s shoulders slumped slightly.

“I would rather not have this conversation with you,” Cullen said in a half-growl. Solas felt his lips curl at the edges, and he urged his mare forward, so he was riding next to the commander. He pressed his lips together and drew his eyebrows into a scowl.

“I would,” Solas said, “If I am travelling with you, I would like to know if I am at risk for being an Apostate. Are you likely to kill me if I sneeze? Will you try to force me into Tranquility if I do not kill a spirit on sight?” He watched the man’s face grow more haunted with each question.

“As long as you don’t put me or the Inquisition at risk, you have nothing to fear from me,” Cullen snarled through clenched teeth.  “But you were under no obligation to join me. If you are that afraid for your life, you can turn back. I won’t tell her.”

Solas blinked, caught off guard by the offer to let him run but not inform the Herald. Unless, of course, it was a trick. Ah… the commander was more cunning than he had thought.

“I have more reason to find her than you do,” Solas said. Next to him, Cullen’s fist tightened around the reins with an audible creak of leather. “After all, you are the commander of the Inquisition’s forces. Should it not be Cassandra who has set out to find our Herald? Or have you convinced yourself that you will be able to ride in and sweep her off her feet, saving her like some damsel in an old fairy tale?”

The elf wondered if Cullen realised that he was letting out a low growl. The cracks in the Commander’s composure were showing, but Solas had to admit Cullen showed admirable restraint of his temper. But that didn’t mean the Apostate was going to stop until he found out why Cullen was here. What he wanted from Milliara.

“She has  _children_ , Commander. There is nothing fiercer in all of nature than a mother protecting her pups. She does not need your help, nor will she fall to her knees in front of you as you ride in to save her. Milliara resents help, she  _resents_  being saved from danger, and she  _will hate you_ for thinking she needs your help.” Each word was chipping at the commander, but still he didn’t break. Yet.

“If there is one thing our Herald is, she is wild,” Solas continued. “From the burrs that catch in her hair to the taste of rain on her lips-”

“ _ENOUGH_ ,” Cullen bellowed, with a single kick, he surged ahead and cut off the mare’s path. His stallion snorted and shook its head, nearly as perturbed as its rider. Solas watched coolly as the man glared and bared his teeth at him. All fire, despite his restraint, the elf watched the Commander’s temper with no small measure of satisfaction.

“You think you can find her and convince her to return? Fine. Go on. Go find her.  I’m not here to try to steal her away or…” the man’s lips twisted in disgust, the scar on his upper lip pulling the expression into a sneer.  “Become her ‘hero’.” He nearly spat out the word, as if it were poison. Solas watched with interest, and made a mental note to figure out what had soured this man on the thought of heroics. If there were a man seemingly built to buy into such stories, the blond lion of Have would be it.

“She has gone to her children,” Solas said calmly. “We will find her there.”

“Then go to the Dales,” Cullen growled. “Find her clan and bring her back. If she’s there.”  He turned his courser around, one hand on the horse’s neck to calm it after his outburst. “She won’t be though. She’s gone somewhere else, I know it.”

Solas raised an eyebrow, otherwise keeping his face impassive.

“Where else would she go when her children were at risk?” He asked, more curious to see the Commander’s reasoning than out of belief in the commander’s logic.

“To their father,” Cullen said. “To agree.”

Solas laughed, a bitter sound that was hollow even to his ears.

“And give up her children?” He asked, wondering how he had misjudged Cullen. He’d thought the man was someone intelligent. Brutish, but intelligent. “Yes, Commander,” Solas said with a fake bow. “Do go and find this father, I will go to the Dales and find  _her_. I will be eager to see you admit your mistake upon our return to Haven.”

 Cullen shook his head, muttering something under his breath before he spurred his horse into a canter, leaving Solas behind. The Dales were something at least, that was familiar. Painful, immensely so, but familiar. Finding her and her clan may take time, but Solas knew the land.

Although… as he urged his horse into a walk once more, Solas found himself wondering why the children’s father would not be in the Dales. Was he from another clan? Or a city elf that was pressed into service in Orlais’s decadent culture?

Slowly, his feeling of satisfaction ebbed, leaving only more questions.

**

Cullen rode until it was too dark to see, the frustration the Apostate getting under his skin kept him going until setting up camp would be difficult and continuing on the road dangerous for his horse. Even though he’d known what Solas was doing, Cullen had felt every barbed word, and now the words were buzzing around in his head. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Solas’ long fingers plucking burrs from her hair, slipping down to trail over the lavender tattoos on her cheeks, his lips pressing against hers…

With a growl, Cullen balled his fists and pressed them against his forehead. He focused on his breath, focused on drawing it in and holding it until his lungs began to burn. Then, slowly, slowly he let it out in a hiss. With every subsequent breath, Cullen felt his pulse slow, his control over his emotions return.

_What do you want, Templar?_

Their voices had started to creep back in, and Cullen looked up at the night-dark road. There was no green glow of a rift, no sign that there was any demons nearby. Although they didn’t need a sign. He grit his teeth, dismounting and starting to lead his horse on foot.

_Fame? Respect? … **power**?_

There would be no sleep tonight. Not with  _their_  voices in his head. He could almost smell the sickly sweet smell of them. Heady and thick, and… He focused on his breathing again, to prevent being sick into the bushes.

The demons had never gotten it right, at least. It was a sliver of comfort, one that he held onto through the worst of the nights. They had offered things they thought a young man might want, without being able to find out what he desperately sought.

“Come on then Jasper,” he murmured to the horse, leading it forward on the dark road. It followed, tired after the long days, but loyal. Perhaps to a fault.

“We’re not far now,” he told the stallion. It snorted behind him, as if in disagreement. For a moment, Cullen debated answering. Jasper wasn’t a Mabari, he wouldn’t’ understand more than the basic commands, but who was nearby to listen? Leliana was not here to smirk at him, nor Cassandra to raise an eyebrow.

Even still, he felt self-conscious, as if he was being watched by someone. He doubted that feeling would ever truly leave, but rather get more intense the longer he went without the lyrium.

“Look,” he said, pointing to the horizon. “You can see the lights there. We’ll reach it by morning.”

The horse snorted.

“Does he talk back to you?”

Cullen spun on his heels, free hand reaching for his sword by habit.  In the darkness, he had to squint to make out her face, although she nearly glowed in the moonlight. She was on foot, as he was, leading the horse that she’d left with.  Draped over the horse’s back was a young boy,tied on carefully so he wouldn’t fall off, and Cullen noticed that there was a cloth sling around her, holding a small form against her belly. Her free hand resting against the sleeping babe’s back, slowly stroking it to keep the infant quiet and sleeping.

Her  _children_.

His heart hurt, just seeing her there. She shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be suffering in the name of the inquisition, not when she had a family to worry about.

But Maker, it was more than that. It was the moonlight on her hair, the sadness on her face, the white-blond hair of the infant against her chest, and the primal wish that those were his children. That he was able to lift the boy from the horse’s back and carry him so he heard soft snores against his shoulder.

Everything the demons had never thought to say, and the Herald stood there. More tempting than the Desire demons that promised him the world, and more.

“Cullen?” she asked, walking up to him, brow drawing into a frown. “Why are you here?” She looked him over, then at the stallion that was normally so full of fire. “When was the last time you  _slept_?”

He forced his shoulders back, spine straight under her gaze. Her eyes looked black in the night, and he wondered what colour the boy’s were. If the girl at her chest had brilliant violet like her mother. It was… a dangerous path to think on.

“You ran off without telling anyone where you were going…” he said, his voice rough even to his ears. He cleared his throat quietly, unwilling to wake the children. “I- We need you, Milliara. But we aren’t prepared to ask you to give up your family for our cause.” Seeing the children, the boy of nearly three, and the infant… how could anyone expect her to willingly give them away to their father?

“But if I don’t, the rifts will threaten them anyways,” she said, starting forward again, leading her courser up to, and then past him. Close enough to reach out and touch her, Cullen saw the tiny pointed ears on the babe, and the… less pointed ears on the boy. The peak of his ears was non-existent, and Cullen tried to think back to Josie’s lessons on nobility. One of them couldn’t have children, was that…  _this_  Grand Baron?

“How did you know I’d be-” she started.

“I thought you’d come-” he said, and both stopped, unsure who should speak first. After a moment, Cullen cleared his throat. “I didn’t think you’d have the children with you, but I knew you would go to see your…” husband? No. Lover? He faltered, feeling ill at the thought of any of those options.

“Keeper? How? I didn’t even know until I was on my way,” she murmured. “I thought… I thought I’d steal them away, bring them to Haven and keep them safe. But,” Cullen was sure her breath hitched, but it was so quick, it was difficult to be sure.

“But there’s nowhere safe,” he finished for her. “Not right now, at least.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded, her fingers tightening around the child strapped to her front.

“There is another way,” He said, keeping pace with her now. It was difficult not to reach out, and brush his fingers over the infant’s downy hair. “A compromise, although it would be only temporary.”

“Fred only likes the kind of compromises that benefit him,” she said quietly, eyes on the ground in front of them. Between words, Cullen was sure she was humming something, but it was so quiet he wasn’t able to tell what the tune was. Not Andrastian, Dalish perhaps? Although… what would a Dalish elf be doing bearing the children of a Grand Baron?

“This would,” Cullen said. “It’s far from perfect, more of a postponing of the issue than resolving it. I’m no Josephine but, it’s the only thing we could come up with.” He was certain the boy was snoring, soft and steady.

“I’m listening,” she said and looked over at him from the corner of her eye.

**

“Monsieur, I must apologise for the late hour,” the valet’s voice was shaking. Fredérique groaned, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Next to him slept his wife, the cow snoring loud enough to shake the rafters of their estate. No doubt the hounds would start howling in reply to her.

“Yes, what is it Jean?” Fred asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Is there an attack?” The battle of the lions had been raging for some time. Although he’d managed to remain neutral for the time being, it was only a matter of time before one side or other forced him into the conflict. Hopefully by then, he would know which side was the winning one.

“Your Lapine, she is here.”

Fred stared at his valet, uncertain if he had heard correctly.

“Here?” he said, fingers clenching handfuls of silk sheets next to his hips. “She is _here_?”

“Oui, Monsieur, with the petit Monsieur.”

“WHERE?!” Fred asked, uncaring if the cow woke up. He leapt out of bed, reaching for his silken robe. It was another hour or two before dawn, and while he should put on a masque, he didn’t want to waste the time. His Lapine had seen the real him, to hide his visage would be near insult.

His son. She was here with his _son_.

“They wait in the courtyard Monsieur. The Lapine, the petit Monsieur, a baby and … the Commander of the inquisition.”

The Inquisition, a name he had heard lately but that held no weight. Yet. He’d thought initially it was just a way for her to stay away, to leverage for position. But she’d brought a... commander? Whoever it was could wait while he reunited-

Fred stared at his Valet, throat growing tight.

“Did you say” he whispered. “A baby?” He’d been so certain, she’d disappeared and he’d thought- how could-

“Andraste be praised,” Fredérique whispered, pushing past his valet and flying down the stairs towards the courtyard.

In the moonlit sky, she waited. Next to the flowering Andraste’s Grace, She sat on the flagstones with a young boy’s head in her lap, one hand on his side. The other curled around the form of a baby, holding it close to her chest.

He rushed out, stopping only as he saw the man there. Off to the side, with broad shoulders and a scar on his upper lip, Fredérique recognized the man the whispers talked about from Kirkwall. The Templar who had left the order to work with the Inquisition.

“Nils?” Fred whispered, feeling his throat grow tight. He stepped forward carefully, eyes falling to his son. The boy stirred, lifting a sleepy head to rub tired eyes.

“Papa?” He was bigger, skin tanned with being outside, and his hair longer. But it was Nils, and he was safe and whole.

“Andraste be praised,” Fred whispered, kneeling in front of his son, and wrapping his arms around him, around his precious Lapine, and his baby. His baby who he was certain had died. “Andraste be praised. You returned to me. Andraste be praised.”

 


	17. Going Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of fluff and bonding between Milliara and the Commander before she faces down her former lover, the Grand Baron. 
> 
> As much as she pretends that she's self-sufficient, Milliara finds herself grateful that Cullen has found her. They talk about family, beliefs and her children to stay awake as they make the last leg of the journey to the Grand Barons estate. Along the way, they slowly uncover a new aspect of each other...

 “Are you sure he’ll accept the compromise?” Cullen asked, leading the stallion he insisted she ride. Milliara was too exhausted to argue, although she had tried until he’d forcibly lifted her up into the saddle.

“Sure? No. But I hope so,” Milliara said, keeping her voice hushed so as not to wake the children. They were almost to Fredérique’s estate, the trees and rocks her brothers and sisters. Memorized from a young age until she knew every fissure, every branch. Milliara rested her cheek against the tender head of Sylana who was snoring softly. A welcome respite from the earlier crying that had alerted anyone and everyone in hearing distance to their arrival.

“You know him,” Cullen said, riding next to her. Perched in front of him on the saddle was Nils who had fallen asleep while asking Cullen about soldiers and Mabari. He was so much bigger than when she’d last seen him. His fair hair pulled back into dalish braids, skin tanned and feet callused and dirty. In the months she’d been away from him, he’d run off some of his baby softness. He looked like he could be Dalish, were it not for the rounded ears that poked out between his braids.

He snorted in his sleep, and Milliara couldn’t help but grin at the surprised look on Cullen’s face. The smile softened slightly as Cullen adjusted the boy in the saddle, and Nils groaned something about horses.

“He likes you,” She said, fingers creeping into Syl’s curls.  The toddler was deep asleep, still clinging to Milliara’s shirt.  “Nils, I mean. I’m pretty sure Fredérique won’t like you,” she added with a quirk of her lips.

“I figured you meant the boy,” Cullen said, glancing at her, and then away. The scar on his lip tugged slightly to make his smile slightly lopsided. Milliara watched him for a moment, wondering at the two sides of the Commander. Tough and demanding with the soldiers, but gentle with Nils.

“And no, I don’t imagine the Grand Baron will like me much, but the Inquisition is not about to ask the Herald to give up her children.” He glanced back at her, first at Syl then up at Milliara’s face. “We are meant to serve the people of Thedas. It would be hypocritical to make one of our own suffer.” He turned back to the road ahead, the smile slipping away.

 “But we need the support of Orlais,” she finished for him. “He has to accept this. Nils,” she glanced over at her son, flopped back in the Commander’s arms, “Fred wants Nils to be his heir but, Nils started showing signs of magic before I left.” Cullen’s head snapped to face her, honey eyes dark in the pre-dawn night.

Milliara offered a tight, uncomfortable smile. So much for the comfortable ride they’d had.

“Herald, if he’s a-” he started, but stopped as she held up her hand. The Marked one, she realised, and winced, lowering it back to the reins.

“It’s not from me, I’m as unmagical as an elf can get,” she murmured, glancing back at her son’s rounded ears, his heavier frame. He could pass as human. Syl’s ears were pointed, her bones smaller and eyes violet like her mother’s. She’d be useless to Fred’s lineage, but he’d want her regardless.

“He should be brought to a Circle,” Cullen said, looking at her still. “To be trained for his own safety. For the safety of those around him.”

Milliara shook her head once. Only once.

“Which Circle?  The one that doesn’t exist anymore? No. The safest place to learn was with the Dalish as the Keeper’s first. They’re not fighting the Templars.” Milliara frowned, pressing her lips to her toddler’s warm head as she thought.

“This complicates things, I don’t know if we’ll be able to deal with an untrained mage…” Cullen said. She could feel his eyes on her, but she was relieved to hear concern in his voice, rather than anger. She’d been worried that he would steal Nils away the moment he found out.

“I thought about it, you’re a Tem- you _were_ a Templar, you know the warning signs. I’m not asking you to baby sit him, I have… a friend… who has agreed to teach Nils. One that Fred can _try_ to say no to, but I really don’t think he will.” She sighed looking back at Cullen, and was surprised to see his face dark.

“Solas?” he asked, glancing at her.  The distaste in his voice was palpable, and Milliara wondered if Cullen hated apostates so much… would he be dangerous to Nils?

“No,” she said slowly. “Solas could teach Nils a bit, but Fred wouldn’t agree to some elf that no-one’s heard of. By friend, I mean acquaintance. I knew her from the Game, and she reached out to me recently. I… thought it’d be a good fit. She’s circle trained, so that would help with your concerns, right?”

She watched as Cullen, the former Templar, pressed his lips together. Milliara expected a lecture on the natures of abominations, of protecting the people from mages and vice versa. Instead, he surprised her by nodding.

“If I see signs-” he started.

“You won’t. But I promise that _if you do_ , that I will listen to you,” she said softly. “Thank you, Cullen.”  He looked at her then, and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Milliara bit the inside of her lip, smiled back and then focused on the road ahead.

They rode in silence for a while. Milliara’s eyes were heavy, and the song of the cicadas a familiar lullaby. It would be nice, she thought, if she could rest against someone and nap, as Nils and Syl were doing. When was the last time she’d slept? It felt like a week, but Milliara was sure it was only…two…three? Days.

She jerked her head up, suddenly aware of a hand steadying her, warm and strong on her bicep. She blinked, reaching up and rubbing at the side of her face. The tattoo there still itched, even though the skin had healed months ago.  

“Sorry,” she mumbled, looking over to see Cullen leaning over, his hand still on her arm.  He smiled, and Milliara felt a tiny shiver run down her spine. His eyes were dark in the pre-dawn, the sky just starting to lighten.

“You managed for quite a while,” he said, letting go. Milliara almost reached for his hand to put it back. She felt cold now, without the heat of his touch through her jacket. How much warmer would he be if he had touched her skin? Milliara swallowed.

“How long?” she asked, looking around. It didn’t take long to recognize that they were nearly at the estate. She could see the ostentatious gate ahead of them, peeking out from the heavy stone walls. Walls to keep the wild things out, and walls that had kept her _in_.

 “Long enough to learn you snore,” Cullen said with a chuckle.

Milliara glared at him.

“I don’t snore,” she said, “It must have been Nils.” Cullen adopted a serious face and nodded.

“My apologies Herald, you are in fact, correct.” Milliara rolled her eyes at the title, and she heard him chuckle again.

“I told you, please don’t call me that,” she said. “Not when there’s no one around to care if I’m supposed to be some Chosen of a dead god.” Her smirk faded as she glanced over to him and saw a furrow on his brow.

“Do you worship the Dalish gods?” He asked, demeanour changed to one that was far more sombre. Milliara chewed on her lip, and shook her head.

“But you’re not Andrastian?” He continued and Milliara sighed. “You don’t think it was Andraste that was with you in the Fade? I- I didn’t see it myself, but my troops saw it, soldiers that I would trust with my life.”

“No, I’m not _anything_ ,” she said. “Look… It’s not that I don’t think there’s something out there, somewhere. It’s just that, I don’t think that it’s what we believe it is. I don’t think it _cares_. Because if it did, if the Maker or Andruil is real, and they care, they’re doing a shit job at watching over us.” She felt her voice turn bitter, and rolled her shoulders back to stretch her chest muscles.

They were nearly at the gate now, although it would be a while yet before they reached the manor. The Grand Baron Fredérique was so proud of his gardens, meticulously landscaped, and representing the major Nations of Thedas. ‘Nature tamed’, he liked to call it. Milliara had once thought them beautiful, but now the manicured lawns felt bland compared to the wild nature of the Hinterlands and the Emerald Graves.

“But you escaped the Conclave, you of all people, don’t you think that is a sign you are protected? That you were meant to come to us, to help fight these rifts?” Cullen asked. They were at the gate now, and Milliara shifted the sling that held Syl so the toddler was on her back.

“I think they saved the wrong person,” she answered, swinging down from her courser. Days of riding bareback had left her legs exhausted, and the muscles protested the sudden weight.

“Do you really think that?” he asked, carefully passing the sleepy Nils down. “Your children need you as well.”

“And how many of those mages, the Templars that died there had families?” She asked, shifting Nils to her hip. He was so much bigger than he had been when he’d last been here. Then, he had been a small thing, three years old. He’d never left the Estate before, and she remembered him clinging desperately to her when he had woken up in a strange forest, without his papa, without the comforts he’d grown up with.

“wait,” she said, “Can… templars… _have_ families?” She’d just assumed they could, but now she remembered jokes Fred had made about them. “Is that… allowed?”

Cullen’s face had turned red, and he suddenly seemed interested in fixing his horse’s bridle.

“I, yes, they can. Some choose not to, but there’s no rule against it,” he stammered, stealing a quick glance at her. When he caught her eye, he cleared his throat and reached out to take Nils from her. Milliara handed the boy over, her muscles aching too much to disagree.

“Do you have one?” Milliara asked.

“M-me?” Cullen asked, eyes wide. He cleared his throat again. “No. I don’t. I mean, I have two sisters and a brother, but I never married. No children. Why would you ask that? I mean, uh, why?” Milliara couldn’t help but smile at his reaction, watching his cheeks and ears darken in dim predawn light.

““You’re so good with Nils. And… comforting other people when they need it.” Like when he’d hugged her that night. There had been no overtones of desire, no awkward cling, just comfort offered when she’d needed something to ground her in reality.

 “I come from a farming family in Fereldan. I’m the eldest, so, I guess being around my brother and sisters I picked up on some things.” His ears were still red, but he looked like he’d relaxed a bit. Milliara couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking her head as she crouched in front of the gate’s lock.

“It’s a shame, I think you’d make a wonderful husband and father,” she said. The lock hadn’t changed, and while it was challenging to pick, Milliara had done so well over a dozen times. She pulled her tools from her belt and began to work.

“I, thank you…” Cullen said from behind her. “I think you’d make a wonderful w-“ he stopped himself, and Milliara turned to look at him over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised. He looked like a halla, trapped in a flash of lightening.

“I’m not the type of woman that people want to marry, Cullen,” she said, and turned back to her work with a soft sigh. “Not with two children from a stuffy Orlesian. Besides that, I’m an elf.”

Neither of them said anything for a while after that. Milliara listened to the lock click, and she twisted the picks, feeling the bolt slide out of its home.

“You’re not really Dalish, are you?” Cullen asked as she stood, brushing the dirt from her knees. She pushed the gate open, holding it to the side for him to lead the horses through.

“Not really. My parents were,” she said. Ahead she could see the lights of the main house. “But my clan was wiped out by the blight before I got my vallaslin.” She paused, pointing to the tattoo on the side of her face. Carefully she closed the gate behind them, leaving it unlocked.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You were on your own?”

“For a while. I managed to get away, making a living with the city elves and heading to Orlais. Fred caught me stealing food one day and he convinced me to stay. It was better than working in the kitchens…” She could remember the look on his face as he caught her in the pantry, an apple in her mouth and a bag of tubers tied to her belt.

“He took you in?” Cullen asked, disrupting the memory of Fredérique’s blue eyes and dark hair. Milliara rubbed the back of her neck as they walked down the main road to the house.  

“In a sense. I was taken in as a family pet, trained as a Bard, and expected to keep the family entertained. Fred… when he became the head of the family, things changed.” Nils was born, their relationship forced into the shadows as he married for power, and Milliara became aware of how little freedom she actually had.

“A pet?” Cullen had stopped, his voice low and hard. Milliara looked over her shoulder at him in surprise. Was he not familiar with Orlesian classes? Fereldan was a little less rigid but Elves had as low standing there as anywhere.

“I was their dancing White Rabbit,” Milliara said with a bitter smile. “It was so different from my life with the clan, at first I felt so lucky to be fed and clothed and cared for. Then, I grew up.” She continued walking up the road, and heard Cullen follow, leading the horses.

She still loved Fred, in a way. Life was never going to be uncomplicated, but at the moment, Milliara desperately wished it was. That she had no ties to the Nobility, that she wasn’t the Herald of Andraste. It would be so nice to just be a hunter, or a scout with the Inquisition.

“Herald, can I ask you something?” Cullen said. She turned, waiting for him to catch up. Nils was starting to stir, rubbing his eyes and squirming to get down.

“Told you, don’t call me that,” she corrected him, and she had to stifle a yawn with the back of her hand.

“Sorry,” Cullen said, setting the boy down. Nils blinked, staggering up to her, and taking her hand.

“Milliara, why didn’t you leave earlier?”

Ah. A food question that one, one Milliara had asked her self so often since her escape nearly a year ago. Yet, she still didn’t have a good answer.

“I loved him,” she said, settling for the truth. “I didn’t know it was supposed to be equal, a balance. I thought that because I loved him, he loved me and had my interests at heart.”

Nils tugged at her hand and she looked down to see her son’s wide blue eyes looking up at her. The soft spatter of freckles on his cheeks had darkened with his skin, and Milliara couldn’t help but reach out to wipe a bit of crust from his eye.

“Momma? Are we _home_?” he asked. “Is papa here?”  She froze, the air driven out of her. Home? He’d been so young when they’d left, did he still think this was _home_? Millara forced a smile onto her face and nodded.

Nil’s face split into a smile, and he let go of her hand, racing up to the house as fast as his legs could carry him.

“PAPA,” he shouted as loud as he could. “PAPA I’m HOME.”

Milliara stood still, her legs too weak to move. She curled her fingers into her palm, bringing it up to her chest. Nils had just ripped the breath from her lungs, and Milliara wasn’t sure how she was going to face Fred like this. She couldn’t breathe.

What if she’d made a mistake, what if Nils would be better off if he lived with Fred?

“Milliara?” She felt Cullen’s fingers brush her shoulder. “Are you alright?” She didn’t answer, knowing if she spoke, she’d break apart completely. Ahead, the door to the house had opened, the familiar from of Fred’s valet there, crouching to pick up Nils.

“Milliara?” He asked again, quieter this time.

She took a shaky breath, pushed her shoulders back, and walked forward. The first step was the hardest, but each following one was easier, the mask of the Herald slipping back into place.  Calm, cold, calculating. Later, she would let the hurt out, sob and panic about the future, but for this morning she needed to be as strong as possible.

“I’m fine” she lied, looking at Cullen. “I’ll need you to support me in there. Will you, even if Nils is a mage?” She watched as he searched her face, and tried not to think on the way his eyes were sad. He nodded.

“Of course I will,” he said. “Always.” She nodded, and followed her son to the house.

**

They waited in the courtyard, Milliara trying not to fall asleep while Syl munched on a piece of flatbread. Cullen sat next to them, watching Nils fidget next to them. He’d wanted to run and explore the house, and only reluctantly sat when Milliara had told him that he’d get a tour from the valet later.

“Nils?” Milliara looked up, a tangle of emotions rising in her throat. Fresh from bed, Fred stood there. He had more grey at his temples, his hair unkempt from sleep, and his eyes were wide as he hurried forward, falling to his knees at Nils’ side and sweeping them all into a tight hug.

She froze. The familiar smell of him twisting her guts into knots. How many nights had she dreamt of this? Of coming ‘home’ to his arms and being a family? Fred pulled back to look at Syl, who started to fuss and cry.

“Who’s this?” Fred asked, staring at her blond hair, the rapidly reddening pointed ears. “Is she mine? I thought, once you left, I thought you’d all died.” He looked at Milliara then, really _looked_ and rocked back onto his heels.

“Maker’s breath, Lapine, what did they do to your face?” He asked, reaching out to brush the tattoo on her cheek.

“Commander Cullen,” she said, keeping her voice as cold as she could. It was the only way to keep from throwing herself back into Fred’s arms. “Meet the Grand Baron, Fredérique Richelieu. Fred, meet the Commander of the Inquisition. He will hold Sylana so I can break your arm if you ever call me Lapine again.” She smiled tightly at the horrified look on Fred’s face.

“But… I’ve always…” he stammered, glancing from her to Cullen who had been unable to hide a smirk. “What would you rather I call you, Millie?” Fred asked, hugging Nils close. The boy was staring at her, a half smile on his face, sure she was joking. Milliara was mostly sure that she _wasn’t._

“The Herald of Andraste.”


	18. Caught red-faced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> unrepentant fluff between Cullen and Milliara Lavellan, staring her inquisitive toddler Sylana.

He’d taken a wrong turn, left instead of right at one of the many paintings of some long-dead noble that wore a ridiculously bushy moustache. Now, Cullen was lost. Instead of finding the guest wing where the Valet had promised that a hot bath would be waiting, the commander opened a door to a room that had windows all along the far wall.

A four poster bed dominated the right side of the room, light white linens draped along it to form a canopy, and tiny crystals dangled in the dawn light, casting pink and gold rainbows across the walls. On the bed, a pale blue dress was laid out made of a material so filmy, Cullen was sure that any snag would tear it to shreds. To his left the room was curiously empty, the wood floor bare of rugs or decoration.

He stepped in; worried that he might get caught, but too curious to help himself.  He passed the bed, letting his fingers brush over the soft silk of the dress. It was faded from the sun, he saw, the folds holding fast the cornflower dye while the exposed fabric had faded considerably in the sun. A fine layer of dust had rested on it, his light touch sent it scattering into the dawn light.

A vanity was tucked into a far corner, bare aside from a comb and small jar of ointment. Both were covered in the same fine layer of dust as the dress, and Cullen couldn’t shake the feeling that he was somewhere he shouldn’t be.

As he walked around the bed, he noticed the Shrine.

Tucked between the bed and the wall was a wooden figurine of an owl, its outstretched wings each snapped off and dropped next to it. Withered flowers and long-burnt incense were scattered around the figurine.  He recognized the owl from books on the Dalish that he’d read while in still stationed at the Circle. A throng of leather was tied around its neck, and at first, Cullen thought it was a noose, but as he knelt by the broken shrine he realised that there was something tied to it.

A small arrowhead carved from dawn stone hung against the owl’s chest.

“Breaking into a lady’s rooms, Commander?”

“Maker’s ar-” He jumped, fumbling with the owl and managing to catch it before it fell to the ground, but only barely. Cullen looked up, his ears and cheeks burning with embarrassment at getting caught. The fact that the Herald was smirking, her toddler perched on one hip and staring at him with an equally large pair of violet eyes… did not help at all.

“I got lost,” he stammered, straightening up quickly, the owl still in his hands. “This was your room. Wasn’t it?” The simplicity of the room compared to the heavy ornate decoration in the rest of the estate, the realization had been at the back of his thoughts until he’d found the shrine.

“Once,” She said, looking around at the bed, her eyes resting on the dress there for a long moment. Her smile faded, and Cullen was sure that the room had grown darker because of it. “It looks like they haven’t been in here since.”

Sylana squirmed in her arms, looking at the figure in Cullen’s hands.  

“Whassat?” the toddler said, leaning precariously forward in her mother’s grasp. “Whas _that_?” Huge violet eyes looked up at him, and Syl reached out for the Owl. Cullen couldn’t help but smile at her, walking over with the owl. He carefully checked it for any splinters before he crouched a bit and held it out to her.

“Do you know who this is?” He asked the girl, and she nodded her head seriously, lips pressed together. “Could you tell me?” He asked, glancing up at Milliara. She raised an eyebrow but made no move to stop them. After their conversation on the road to the Baron’s estate, he wasn’t sure if she’d want him talking about the elven gods to her daughter.

“Drool,” she said confidently, fingers reaching our and touching the owl’s face, exploring the beak and carved eyes. “An Drool.”

“Andruil,” Milliara corrected gently. “This is Andruil’s messenger Syl,” Cullen smirked as the toddler tilted her head back to look up at her mother, hands still clutching the owl.

“Androol’s messenger?” She asked and Cullen watched as Milliara’s face bloomed into a smile and laugh. His heart hurt at the sight, trying to leap from his chest at the way her hair looked in the morning light, the soft curve of her lips and the love in her eyes as she looked down at her daughter.

Maker preserve him… How was he going to ask her to go into the warzone between the mages and Templars, knowing that she had children that would miss her if she never returned?

“Can you say thank you to Cullen?” Milliara prompted, and he blinked, pressing his expression back into a small smile at the girl. She looked at the Owl, then up at him and smiled at him.

“Fuzzy!” she squealed, laughing and forgetting about the owl completely, reaching out and grabbing handfuls of his ruff. Cullen dropped the owl, reaching out to catch the little body that had thrust itself out at him. His fingers wrapped around Milliara’s who had reacted just as quickly, and he swallowed hard. They were so small, her skin so warm under his, and… and… his ears were burning again.

“S-sorry,” he stammered, still on a knee in front of her. She was looking at him, a faint flush of pink dusting her cheeks, or was that a trick of the early morning light?

“No,” she said.

“No?” he asked, frowning in confusion. Had she seen the way she’d affected him? Was she saying no? Of course she’d say no, she was… tangled. Two children with an orlesian lord and Maker knew what with the apostate. She would say no, and he shouldn’t have thought of it otherwise.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said, taking his hands and wrapping them around her daughter so he was holding her instead. The toddler was busy tugging at the fur mantle, and rubbing her cheek on it. “I’m glad you reached out for her. Just in case I hadn’t been able to in time.”

 _Oh_.

“Of… oh of course,” he said, standing up and clearing his throat. He adjusted the baby girl slightly in his arms. “I, should, you… do you want her back?” He asked awkwardly, aware of a small hot hand grabbing onto his ear and exploring the earlobe.

“Whassat?” Syl asked, tugging at it.

“His ear love,” Milliara said, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her own ear, which Cullen was sure was pinker than normal. Had she felt-

“Why round?” Syl asked, interrupting his thoughts with another curious hand.

 “Because he’s a human, Syl,” Milliara said, crouching and untying the throng from the owl’s neck. “And no, if you could hold her for a moment, I’d really appreciate it.” She tossed the owl onto the bed, tying the leather around her neck and tucking the arrowhead under her shirt.

“Alright,” Cullen said, head tilting to the side as the small elfblooded girl examined his curiously round ears. He was sure that Josie and Leliana would have loved to see this, and that they would never let him live it down. However, holding the little girl was stirring some heartstrings he hadn’t thought were left. She smelled like elfroot and her mother, her hair tied back into tiny braids, too fine for much else.

“Hi,” he whispered, smiling down at her once she had released his ear. He was rewarded with a tiny frown, and she reached out, touching the scar on his upper lip.

“Ouch,” Syl said seriously. Then she showed him a small scratch on her elbow, the scab nearly ready to fall off. “Mama.” Syl twisted in his arms, and Cullen was surprised at how strong she was, considering how little her body was.

“Mama!”

Milliara looked up from reaching under the bed, a small cloth bag in one hand that hadn’t been there before. She stood, stifling a yawn.

“Yes Vhenan?” Milliara asked, leaning in to kiss her daughter’s cheek. Cullen didn’t mean to, but he couldn’t help but breathe in the Herald’s smell. Dirt, leather and horse, she smelled like the road. And faintly, nearly too faint to notice, the smell of elfroot flowers.

“Ouch, Mama,” Syl said, poking Cullen in the lip again. He blinked, cheeks flushing again as he realised what Syl was saying.

“It’s an old ouch,” he said, trying to steer the toddler away from the conversation. The Herald blinked, and looked from her daughter to the Commander, realization slowly dawning on her face.

“You want us to kiss it better?” Milliara said, tying the cloth bag to her belt and reaching for her daughter. Cullen handed the girl over, numb with a certain blend of eager horror. Both wishing that they would get interrupted and he could make a hasty retreat, but also knowing that he would deeply resent anyone who opened the door at this particular moment.

“It feels better,” he stammered, reaching up and rubbing the back of his neck unable to look at the Herald in the eyes.

“Come here,” Milliara said, small fingers taking his chin and gently tugging it down. Cullen swallowed hard, then then blinked in surprise as Syl leaned in and pressed a butterfly kiss on the scar. He couldn’t help but smirk as the toddler leaned back, satisfied.

“Thank you Sylana,” he was cut off as the Herald rose up on her tiptoes, pressing a gentle kiss to the scar, her lips hot on his skin. She lingered there for a heartbeat, two… or was it just that his heart had suddenly started to race in his chest, and the kiss was as short as that of her daughter’s?

“There,” the Herald said, pulling back with a smug look, her eyes flicking down to his lips before they settled on his eyes once more. “All better, right Syl?”

Cullen stood there, watching dumbly as Milliara turned and left through the door, her daughter hanging to one side of her shoulder and waving goodbye.

With the two ladies out of sight, he lifted a hand up to his lip tracing the scar there.

“Maker’s breath,” he murmured, cheeks and ears on fire.


	19. Surprise Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Milliara and Cullen meet with the Grand Baron to discuss Nils' future, only to be caught off guard with a compromise that is different than the one they had planned. Neither are pleased, but they are unable to refuse. 
> 
> Nils' tutor arrives at the Estate with a gift for Milliara, and some ulterior motives. 
> 
> 3800 words.

To say that the atmosphere in the courtyard was tense would have been akin to calling a thunderstorm a cloudy day. The valet, Joce, had brought out breakfast for everyone. A selection of fruits, crepes, juices and tea. Milliara had already had two cups of the strong brew, and was clinging to her third in an effort to stay awake and sharp for the coming discussion.

Both she and Cullen had washed, though doing so had only let the exhaustion that Milliara had been fighting off settle more deeply into her bones.

That, and the curls of gold on the Commander’s head were distracting. She wanted to reach over and tug at one, to see if it would spring back into place. The poor man was self-conscious enough about them, repeatedly running his hand through them while they waited for Fred and his… wife.

“Cullen, just leave it,” she said, glancing up from where Nils and Sylana were playing on the grass. “It looks fine, really,” she meant it to soothe, but the lack of sleep was catching up at her and she winced at the sharper tone.

“Sorry, I mean it’s fine, really. But Fred might think you’re nervous,” she added. His ears had started to turn pink, and he rested his hands between his knees, a sheepish smirk curling his lips. The scar tugged at the expression as it always had, but Milliara noticed it in a way she hadn’t before. She still could feel his scruff under her lips, the heat of his skin where the tip of her nose had brushed his cheek. He might have thought he remained collected, but she’d heard the soft intake of breath as she’d kissed the scar ‘better’.

None of these were things she could afford to think about right now. The time in her old room had felt removed from life, a safe space when she had so much responsibility riding on her shoulders.

The sounds of bickering announced Fred and the lady Baroness’s arrival before the entered the courtyard proper. As tall as Fred, the Baroness was an imposing woman, with steely eyes and lips that pressed together to form a straight line. She was, at one time, widely renowned as one of the most beautiful woman in Orlais, but her personality… was so lacking that she’d never been married off until Fred could no longer avoid an Orlesian wife.

“Why is this so important that I must be here?” Lisette asked, her arms crossed as she led the Baron to where Milliara and Cullen sat. She was dressed in the finest silks and wore an ornate masque that covered her entire face. The only thing of her expression that Milliara could see was the narrowed slits of her eyes. Fred followed behind, dressed properly now, with a half masque covering the upper half of his face.

“Because this concerns you as much as it does me,” the Baron said. Milliara recognized the tension in his voice, and wondered how long this particular argument had been going on. “It concerns my son, the future of this family and estate.”

Lisette walked past Milliara with a sniff, and held out a hand to Cullen who stared at it a moment before he took it and kissed her knuckles.

“Lisette Richelieu, Grande Baroness of Orlais,” she said, pointedly ignoring the elf that sat next to the Commander. Milliara might normally have smirked, or made a joke at the Baroness’s expense. But she was exhausted and had no patience left.

“That’s nice,” she said. “I’m the Herald of Andraste, and this is the Commander of the Inquisition.” Lisette finally turned her head to look at Milliara from over her nose and sniffed again.

“So I have heard,” the Orlesian woman said, and took a seat in the chair furthest from Milliara. “I cannot believe such a thing, but my husband assures me that it is so. I’m sure that Andraste has made some mistake,”

Milliara could practically feel the snarl from Cullen, and cleared her throat loudly in an attempt to get the discussion back on track.

“Fred. Nils can’t come back and live with you,” She said, looking at the Baron. The guilt of stealing his son from him for years had started to creep in, and Milliara reminded herself again that it had been for the best. “I’m sorry. It’s not an option.”

The Baron’s shoulders thrust back and he leaned forward in his chair.

“What do you mean he cannot? He is _right here_ ,” Fred said, gesturing to where the boy sat in the grass, playing peekaboo with his sister. “You took him away for years and now you want to deny my son from me still?” Someone who hadn’t known Fred as well wouldn’t have heard the way his voice cracked on the word ‘son’. They might not have heard the hurt that lay in those words.

“He is, and he can stay while we rest, before we head back to Haven,” Milliara said, fixing her eyes on those of the Baron. Her own throat was getting hot, and she swallowed hard. “But he can’t stay. He can’t, but you can visit. As often as you’d like, so long as you don’t interfere with the Inquisition’s operations.”

Fred pulled back, and the look in his eyes hurt her more than it should have. He looked at her as if she were something poisonous rather than the woman who had once loved him. His lips twisted, and Milliara watched as his eyes flicked past her to Cullen.

“I see,” he said coldly. “Then I should suggest that the Inquisition learn to manage without the help of Orlais. He is my _son_ Milliara. My _son_. And you want to take him from me again?” This time, the crack in his voice would have been plain for everyone gathered to hear.

“It’s not what you think, Fred,” Milliara said softly.

“No? I think you left, and you didn’t tell me why. You didn’t say goodbye, you just took our son and _left_. We tried to follow you, and when your tracks led into the Firewater garden I was sure…” He stopped, clearing his throat to hide the roughness of his voice.

Milliara closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

She remembered running, with the small body of Nils strapped to her back. She’d packed only food and a knife; everything else left so as not to lose precious time. She’d heard the dogs before they’d gotten too far, and there was only one way to lose them all.

The leafy greens of the firewater garden made it easy to think it would be safe… but the place was infested with giants. She’d only just escaped with her life, and that of her son. Milliara was sure she could feel the earth shake as she dodged one of their feet, and opened her eyes to keep from reliving the horrifying night any longer.

“Nils has magic, Fred,” she said softly. “He has magic.”

The Baron froze, and even Lisette turned to pay attention. Fred looked at her, waiting for her to laugh, joke that she was just teasing and that Nils would be able to take over the estate when he reached of age. When she did neither, he turned to look at where his boy was now practicing headstands in the grass.

“No… but…” he breathed, leaning back in his chair. “There’s never been any magic in my family.”

“He should be in a circle!” Lisette said, echoing Cullen’s earlier words. “He is a danger to us just being here! What if he’s an abomination?”

“He’s _not_ ,” snapped Cullen, beating Milliara to the punch. “I served with the Templars for some time, I would recognize the signs. The boy is just a boy.”

Milliara couldn’t help but shoot the Commander a thankful look before she turned back to face her former lover. Fred was leaning back in his chair, staring at Nils. The colour had leached from his face, and with it, the fire of his hurt.

“You should have told me, Millie,” he said quietly. She closed her eyes and reached up to rub at the vallaslin on her brow.

“I know, I was scared, Fred. He would have been taken to a Circle, and with the wars going on, the safest place was with a clan to learn from the Keeper.” The tattoos were itching, and she wished that she had known how much of a pain they would be before she’d agreed to them.

They were all quiet for a while. Milliara stared into her cup of tea, and felt a light supportive touch on her elbow from her Commander. Eventually, Lisette of all people broke the silence.

“Who will teach the boy in the absence of a circle?” The Baroness asked. “Does the Inquisition have properly trained instructors?” As her husband turned to stare at her in surprise, Lisette gave a small shrug. “My youngest sister was taken to the circle. I remember the days before they found her, the way things would catch fire and doors would open and shut because of her. It is better that the boy is trained, or made tranquil. The sooner the better.”

Any burgeoning respect Milliara had felt for the woman died as she mentioned Tranquility. There were some Tranquils at the Inquisition, and to think of her bright, loving, son as empty as they were… Cullen’s arm was the only thing that held her back as she sprang to her feet, teeth bared.

“He will _not_ be made Tranquil,” she snarled. “And if you try as part of the Game, know that I will destroy _everything_ you care about.”  She felt another strong hand rest on her shoulder, and heard Cullen murmuring soft calming words in her ear.

Lisette sniffed again, and examined her nails.

“Yes, well, if he takes after his mother, I would suggest the rite sooner rather than later, dear husband.”

“Let her be, Herald,” Cullen said, gentle but unyielding. His hands were enough to keep her from tearing out the woman’s throat… for the moment. Milliara glanced to Fred, and felt some relief at seeing the hard clench of his jaw. She knew that expression; she’d seen it when she still played the game and seen someone overstep themselves in front of Fred.

Every breath the Baroness took from that moment was of borrowed air. She swallowed hard, wanting nothing more than to hurt the woman who was so calm about the idea of destroying her boy. Millie closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out before she forced her shoulders to relax. If she wasn’t the one to end the woman’s life, Fred would be.

“Will there be an instructor?” Fred asked, and she opened her eyes to look at him. For all their troubles, at least she could rely on him to help protect their children.

“Yes.” Milliara said, rolling her shoulders back to try to force herself to relax.

“Circle trained. I thought it would be the best compromise. She’s already agreed, and is travelling meet us here,” she continued slowly, “ _Madame de Fer_ was quite eager to tutor Nils.” Milliara glanced over at Lisette, who had dropped the pretense of examining her nails. Now she sat stock still, watching Milliara warily from behind her masque.

“Madame De Fer? You spoke with the First Enchanter?” Fred couldn’t stay still any longer it seemed. He got up and started to pace back and forth. “She agreed to tech Nils? What about…” Fred glanced at where Nils had fallen over in the grass, sending Sylana into a fit of giggles.

“It’s too soon to know,” Milliara admitted. “Nils only showed his talents as he neared his fourth year, Sylana is still too young.” She let Cullen guide her back into her chair. When he let go of her arm, she felt off balance. She’d been leaning on him without knowing it.

“Wait,” Cullen said, holding up a hand as he looked at Milliara. “The tutor you mentioned, she’s the First Enchanter of Orlais?” He blinked, and Milliara felt a bloom of pride in her chest at the impressed quirk of the Commander’s eyebrow.

At her nod, he sat back in his chair, and looked over at the two children. Following his gaze, Milliara saw that they had stopped playing were now watching the adults carefully. Sylana’s lip was quivering slightly, her older brother comforting her with a hug. The guilt at losing her temper was immediate, and Milliara stood, walking over to where they sat on the grass. It was still cool from the night, and tickled her hands as she sat next to the children. Syl immediately crawled into Millie’s lap. Nils hesitated, but leaned into her with a small sigh.

“Do we have to leave again?” he asked, looking over at his father. Masque or no, Milliara could still read him as well as any book. The pain, longing and love were there as he watched his children.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” she said, and Nils pushed away from her.

“I don’t want to go! I want to stay home!” He shouted, and ran over to where Fred sat, throwing his arms around his father’s waist. “I don’t want to leave,” Nils said, starting to cry. “Don’t make me go, papa.”

Fred leaned down, and picked the boy up, holding him in his lap, arms tight around him, face pressed into his son’s hair. Milliara swallowed down the feelings that were clogging her throat, forcing herself to sit and watch rather than run over and scoop up Nils and explain why it had to be this way. Let him hate her if he had to, but he had to be _safe_.

“I’ll come with you,” Fred said after a moment, his voice hoarse. “I’ll come with you to where Maman is.”

“To stay?” Nils sniffled, his voice muffled by his father’s doublet. Milliara watched Fred closely as the Baron kissed his son’s hair, holding the boy tight. He met her eyes, and she felt her stomach drop. It wasn’t supposed to get this complicated; it was supposed to be a compromise but to have Fred around Haven? The small village too crowded to avoid him, too small already with Solas there… with Cullen.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Fredérique beat her to it.

“Of course, mon fils,” he said, staring at Milliara. Daring her to object. “Until this is all over, then we can come back home.”

Milliara blinked, feeling panic creep up her back, clinging to her neck. This didn’t feel right, something about it felt _wrong_ and she wasn’t sure what. Slowly, she shifted her eyes to Cullen, who had his jaw clenched, but was looking at his hands. He stood abruptly and cleared his throat.

“I’d best check on the horses,” he said. Hearing the Commander’s voice instead of the man’s made something clench in Milliara’s chest, leaving her cold. “Herald, let me know when you plan to set out for Haven.” He turned, walking out of the courtyard before Milliara could think of a way to stop him.

**

“Good evening darling, I hear you’ve been asleep all day.”

Milliara groaned, curling into a smaller ball, as if that would shut out the cheerful voice that had woken her. The thick down blanket she had pulled over her nose was yanked away for her trouble. Before she could react, her left hand was snatched up, and turned so her visitor could take a look at her palm.

“Tsk, my dear you look positively frightful. When was the last time you cut your hair? Or polished your nails?” The bed sagged slightly as the visitor sat next to her, lifting a lock of hair from Milliara’s face. “And that tattoo… tsk. When did you get _that_?”

“Viv… sometimes I hate you,” Milliara groaned, opening an eye to see a smiling First Enchanter looking at her Mark. “Like right now.”

“Oh hush, you’re still sleepy and you don’t know what you’re saying,” the first enchanter laughed, glancing down at Milliara. “I must say, I didn’t expect to hear that I knew the Herald of Andraste personally! And that it was a friend? That positively warmed my cold iron heart.” Vivienne tapped the mark, and Milliara winced as the buzz of magic flared, the green glow blooming to light the room before it ebbed to normal.

“Can I have my hand back now?” Milliara asked, pushing herself up to sit. She’d asked for a guest room to rest while they waited for Vivienne to arrive and for Fred to pack. Although her old room had been offered, Milliara couldn’t face the thought of sleeping there one more time.

“In a minute darling,” Vivienne said, looking at the mark closely. “How curious. And our dear Nightingale said you remember nothing of how it happened? Such a shame.” Milliara rolled her eyes. Of course Viv had already spoken with Leliana. Josie too, probably. No doubt soldiers in Haven were scrambling to ready the room for Vivienne before she arrived.

With a last look, Vivienne patted the marked hand and let it go. Then she turned her eyes on Milliara, looking her over in a way that left the elf feeling woefully inadequate. She’d always felt plain next to Viv, but with her hair so unkempt, and the weariness of being on the road, Milliara was sure that she looked horrendous.

She realized in surprise, that this was the first time she cared how she looked since she’d joined the Dalish, years ago.

“I’ve met Nils,” Vivienne said, being kind and not commenting on Milliara’s looks further. “I wish you had told me sooner, we all thought you were dead.” Was that actual concern in the Enchanter’s voice? Milliara couldn’t help the smirk that pulled on her lips.

“Well, I almost was, a couple times,” Milliara said, and earned a stern glare from her friend.  “Sorry,” she added. “I was scared with what was going on between the mages and the Templars, he’s so young…”

“And the risk of becoming possessed is less than that of a Templar?” Vivienne interrupted, lifting a perfect eyebrow.  Milliara squirmed. “The risk is not only to himself, but to those around him, darling. Leaving him untaught was dangerous.”

“He’s not untaught, the Dalish keeper was teaching him while we were out there,” Milliara said with a frown. “Now you’ll be teaching him. I did what I could, Viv. I don’t need you and Cullen to give me this speech every time Nils is brought up.” Milliara ran a hand through her hair, only for her fingers to catch in a tangle of braids.

“Cullen? Ah, your Commander, yes?” Vivienne said, shooing Milliara’s hands away and starting to undo the braids for her.

“He’s not _My_ Commander,” Milliara grumbled, but let Vivienne work on combing through her hair. It brought her back to earlier days, before they held such lofty titles and before Milliara had a son to worry about.

“Darling, you’re the Herald of Andraste, the living Saint of the Inquisition. He is _your_ Commander. Besides, the man needs a woman to tell him what to do. As do most.” Milliara sighed, rubbing the tattooed side of her face to get rid of the lingering itch there.

She waited in silence for a while, suffering through tugs of her hair as Vivienne ‘fixed’ things. The detangling was over soon, but the braiding had only just begun. Milliara knew better than to try to escape while the Enchanter was working on her hair. At best, she’d be punished with a sharp tug of her hair, at worst, frozen in place until Vivienne had finished.

“Viv,” Milliara said softly, “How am I supposed to do this? You know I don’t believe in Andraste… or even any of the Dalish gods.” She felt her friend’s hands stall for a moment before they went back to work.

“You put on your masque, Millie,” Vivienne said. “And you play the Game. This is just a different Masque, a different Game. Bigger, with different players and different rules… but the idea is the same.” There was a small flare of pain as hair pins were shoved into place, scraping against Milliara’s scalp.

“I hate the game,” Milliara grumbled, and dodged the swat from the Enchanter without bothering to look at it. “I hate _parts_ of the Game,” she corrected, glancing over her shoulder. “Better?”

Vivienne smiled, and pulled Milliara into a hug. Milliara blinked, too surprised to do much but hug back. Vivienne never had been one for physically expressing affection.

“An improvement,” Vivienne said with a soft laugh, letting go and holding Milliara at arm’s length to look at her. “It is good to see you again darling. Even in your current state. I’ll arrange to fix you up as soon as we get to Haven, yes?”

Milliara let her head tilt back, and stared at the stucco ceiling. It was better than disagreeing with Vivienne, although she was sure that there was going to be quite a discussion on the trip back about the Herald’s fashion versus Milliara’s sense of fashion. Hopefully, the Enchanter would let her be.

“I’ll let you get dressed, and meet you in the parlor,” Vivienne said, getting off the bed with a smile. “I brought you a gift, to get you started. It’s on the window sill.” With a smile, she left the room. As always, Vivienne was a force of nature, and Milliara was sure that the woman had a gravity of her own that pulled at everyone near her.

Milliara debated curling back up into the bed, but she’d left Syl with Fred, and the toddler could get cranky with someone new. With a groan, she pushed herself out of bed, stumbling over to the window to find a neatly folded pile of leathers and fur.

“Please don’t be horns,” Milliara muttered, pulling the top item free. There were no horns, but rather a beautifully made black vest, the hood lined with fur to keep her warm in the cold air of the Hinterlands and Frostbacks. There were matching leggings, both made of bear skin. “Viv…” Milliara whispered, finding a pair of matching gloves and boots underneath.

Cool exterior or no, Milliara knew Vivienne would protect Nils and Syl with her life. She sniffed, and wiped a stray trail of water from one eye. Because she _wasn’t_ crying damnit. She was just touched by the thoughtful gift and relieved that her friend was joining her.

Eyes sufficiently dry, Milliara got dressed. In clothes that felt like they’d been made for her (Milliara was sure that they _had_ been), and her hair pulled back into a tight series of braids, she felt like she was more herself than she had been for months.

Milliara pressed her shoulders back, looking at her reflection in the window’s glass. But it wasn’t just her, not the Lapine, or Millie that stood there.

“Viv you conniving bitch,” Milliara muttered with a small smile. Her heart still hurt at the generosity of her friend.  

In the window’s reflection stood the Herald of Andraste.


	20. New Additions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ride back to Haven is a little too long for one particular ex-Templar. Not only is he stuck watching the Herald ride ahead of him for days, but the First Enchanter decides to strike up a rather uncomfortable conversation. So when the Herald finds a rift nearby, Cullen is relieved to jump into action.

He should have offered to take point, Cullen thought, trying not to focus on the Herald who rode at the head of their column. The gear that she had worn on the way down was stowed away, and so too was the comfortable chatter they’d shared. Now, dressed in black leathers with her silver hair in braids, it was as if something had changed in the woman.

It was the Herald who led the way back to Haven, rather than Milliara.  

The distinction was one he’d seen before…  both in the Queen of Fereldan, and the Champion of Kirkwall. The titles were more than human, and it required hose who held them to set aside any weaknesses that  _made_  a person human. It was dangerous, and took a toll that he’d seen first hand in Meredith.

His chest still ached as he remembered the light kiss to make his scar ‘better’.  First by Syl, and then … Maker’s grace, he was going to need to forget about that. She’d done it to make her daughter happy, not out of any feelings, Cullen told himself. It  _had_  to be nothing, because her former lover, the father of her children, was travelling with them.

“She’s changed,” the First enchanter said, drawing her own horse up next to him. Cullen glanced over at her,  still wary of having a Circle mage so close. Early on in the trip, the woman had complimented him on serving as a Templar, and that… that had not endeared her to him.

“How so?” he asked, glancing back at the Herald ahead. Syl was watching him from over Milliara’s shoulder, and smiled, waving shyly at him. Even heartsore, he couldn’t help but smile back and lift his hand at the little girl.

“Well,” Vivienne said, “She’s a mother for one, Milliara was never one to have… maternal instincts. That she is so devoted to her children now is so  _heartwarming_.” Cullen noticed the word didn’t seem to be a compliment, coming from the First Enchanter.

“I can’t blame her, both Nils and Sylana are charming,” Cullen answered. The boy was riding with his father, behind them with a retinue of his personal guard. So many armed men at his back made for an uncomfortable ride, but so far the Baron had held his end of his promise that they would be nothing but protection from bandits and demons.

“They are,” Vivienne said without much warmth. “But it does make me wonder if she’s gone soft. There will be many hard decisions ahead of her, ones that she was never expected to make. I admit that I’m worried for her.”

That, Cullen didn’t have an immediate answer for. He would help as much as he was able, both as a commander and as a… friend. He’d seen a city torn apart by poor decisions, and the Breach would affect all of Thedas.

“She’ll make the decisions she needs to,” Cullen said after a long moment. She’d make them at the cost of herself, her happiness, but she would make them.  “She’d already made the one to give up her children for the good of the Inquisition.”

Ahead, Milliara put her hand up, signalling to the column to stop. Green miasma twisted around her hand, light shining through a hole in her glove’s palm that she had cut earlier. He remembered seeing her hand do that, but only when he’d first met her. The reports from the field were extremely clear, however.

“Where is it?” He asked, urging Jasper forward, his hand already drawing out his sword. They were still in the foothills of the Frostbacks, area’s  thick conifers made it difficult to see where the rift might be.

“Viv,” Milliara said urgently, untying her daughter from her torso. “Bring Syl to Fred, tell him to stay here and keep them safe.”

Vivienne took the girl, who immediately started to cry and squirm in the Enchanter’s hands. Cullen watched as she spurred her horse back towards where the Baron’s guards were forming a protective circle around the man and Nils.

“Hurry back. We’re going to need you,” Milliara shouted, and urged her horse forward on the path. Cullen followed, keeping his eyes peeled for the telltale glow of the rift.

“There,” Milliara shouted, pointing at a clearing ahead. Squinting, Cullen was just able to make out the green slash in the air, and the shades that clustered around it. As they neared, he counted four of the lesser shades… and a thing wrapped in tattered robes that skulked at the edge of the clearing.

It must have noticed them, letting out an unholy screech that sent a shiver down his spine. Despair. Every Templar had one demon that they hated to deal with. For some with quick tempers, it was Rage. Others, unable to cope with the human intelligence of a demon, it was Pride.

Despair demons, their unearthly wails cutting deep into mortal hearts, were nearly the worst for Cullen. The bone-deep chill that trailed in their wake could take days to shake off, and the frost they threw could turn hands too numb to hold a weapon.

Cullen swung down from Jasper’s saddle with enough distance from the shades to give him time to unstrap his shield and helm. Even though it only took a moment, letting the Herald fight on her own for even that long was nerve wracking. If she got hurt, it would be his failing. If she died…

“Focus on the Shades,” Milliara said, drawing her feet up into onto the saddle of the horse. As he opened his mouth to argue, Milliara launched off the saddle, using it as a springboard to attack the nearest shade. Her twin daggers flashed in the cold air, sinking hilt deep into the monsters before her momentum carried both of them to the ground with a sickening crunch.

“Don’t be reckless,” He shouted, yanking on the helm. His heart pounded as he watched her roll to avoid the swipe of the broken shade’s claws. For a moment, he thought the following splatter of blood was hers, and his chest clenched, squeezing out the breath from his chest.  Instead, the Shade shuddered and collapsed into the dirt.

 “We can debate that,” she gasped, covered in dark blood, “ _after the_  rift is closed.” Already she was turning to face the next targets, twin shades that were closing in on her right. The remaining one had started to swim through the air towards him.

Shield at the ready, Cullen charged it, bracing his shoulder against the shield for maximum force. The impact threw the monster back with a satisfying crunch, leaving it open for his sword to lop off one of its claws. The wounded shade hissed, its dark blood splattering Cullen’s shield as it struggled to right itself.

Cullen spotted a flash of blue from the edge of the trees, and sprinted towards the Herald. He lifted his shield just in time to stop the freezing beam from striking her. Milliara ducked reflexively, turning to see who had appeared behind her. Cullen glanced down at her and nodded.

“I’ve got your back,” he said, and turned back as he felt the pressure shift on his shield. Frost crackled and snapped, growing heavy on his shield as demon moved the beam to try to catch Cullen in the helm. He shifted his shield up higher, and struck it with his pommel sharply. The frost on it cracked and fell off in sheets.

Behind him, he could hear the sounds of the Herald fighting the two shades, though it was muffled through his helm.  He glanced to the side, where the crippled Shade was making its way towards them. The Herald was a strong fighter, but three shades would be overwhelming for her. 

“On your-” he started to shout when fire erupted at the Shade’s base. Flames leapt up to consume it, rapidly setting fire to the long robes that hid the Shade’s form from view. The thing Shrieked, flailing its remaining arm as it burned.

“Thank the Maker,” Cullen breathed and watched as orange missiles shot overhead, arcing down to slam into the Despair demon. Each impact drew out a screech of pain, as the fire seared icy flesh. The attack shattered the Demon’s focus, the icy beam winking out of existence.

“Thank Viv,” Milliara corrected.

“You’re welcome dears,” the Enchanter said with a laugh.

Cullen turned, finally able to help her with the two shades that she had desperately been holding off. He knocked away one’s claws with his shield, and stepped in to drive his sword up into its jaw. The thing scrabbled at the blade, trying to pull the weapon from its face.

Milliara darted forward, sliding feet first under his shield and sword to get behind the trapped shade. She tucked and rolled to her feet, narrowly avoiding the second shade’s grasping claws. Cullen held the trapped monster still as the Herald leapt forward from behind it, slamming her two daggers into its back, and yanking them to either side. The shade shuddered, slumping forward as it’s body started to disintegrate.

“Duck!” Milliara shouted, and Cullen had just enough time to fall to a knee as she sprinted towards him. She leapt up, planting one foot on his knee and vaulting over him. He felt more than heard the crunch of her tackling the remaining shade. 

“Reckless!” he shouted again, but this time he found himself grinning behind his helm.

“Darling,” Vivienne shouted over the sizzling crack of her attack on the Demon, “You have  _no_ idea how often I’ve told her that.” Flames sprouted up around the Despair demon, eagerly consuming it despite the demon’s attempt to flee from the attack.

“Stop,” Milliara said, slamming her knife into the Shade’s face “encouraging him, Viv.”

Cullen stood, pinning the Shade to the ground with his sword long enough for Milliara to roll clear of it. Stepping forward, Cullen slammed the edge of his shield into the fiend’s head, feeling the skull give way.

“I don’t know,” Cullen said, straightening to see the demon fall to the ground, twitching. In front of them the Rift flickered, expanding as the second wave began to crawl through. “I think we agree on this already, don’t we Madame?”

“Absolutely,” Vivienne purred. “We only have your best wishes at heart, dear.”

“Wonderful…” Milliara muttered. She wiped some of the blood from her face with the back of her arm, watching the rift shudder and spit out first one Terror, then another.  The demons hissed, one starting forward while the other knelt and began to dig at the ground.

“Keep them busy,” the Herald said, and lifted her hand up to the rift. Green light arced out, shuddering and dancing as her Mark began to disrupt the rift. “This takes a while.”

Vivienne lifted her staff, twirling it as she began to cast. Cullen charged forward at the nearest Terror. Larger than the shades, the impact of hitting the Terror knocked the breath from his lungs as it sent the fiend staggering back. Behind it, Cullen saw that the ground was empty. What-

“Behind you!” He heard Vivienne shout, and turned to see the Terror leap out of the ground behind Milliara. The mage sent a volley of missiles at it, the orange streaks slamming into the Terror’s body.

“Don’t stop, Mill,” shouted a voice behind the Terror. Heavily accented, Cullen had time to see the head of an arrow punch through the fiend’s shoulder, followed by two more in quick succession. “Close that damn thing.”

He turned back to the one he had engaged just as it lashed out, catching him in the chest and knocking him back. Cullen parried the next strike, although he knew that he’d lost the advantage when he’d let himself get distracted.

The terror’s arm lashed down again and this time Cullen was able to block it and riposte, his sword cutting a deep line across the demon’s forearm. It hissed angrily, tail lashing behind it. He stepped forward, slamming his pommel into the fiend’s  leg hard enough to crush bone.

Above them, the rift flared, bathing the clearing in bright green light. Cullen was sure he could hear the fabric of reality ripping apart. How had Milliara had ever walked out of one of those rifts alive? The light faded, leaving Cullen able to see the fiend in front of him had fallen to its knees. Or whatever passed for them, at least. The thing was wavering, dazed by the flash of power that Milliara had unleashed.

Unwilling to let himself be distracted a second time, Cullen dropped his shield to take his swords in two hands. With a mighty slash, he severed the Terror's head from it's shoulders. The arterial spray of ichor covered him, but the fiend toppled, breaking apart into ashes as the body hit the ground.

He turned to see Vivienne set the other terror aflame, and winced as he watched the Herald roll in close despite the flame to slam her daggers into its chest. The demon shuddered, slumping over to reveal near a dozen arrows peppering its back. As it fell apart into ash, Cullen looked past it to see the Baron lower his bow. With grudging respect, Cullen nodded to the man. Perhaps he was less of a spoiled nobleman than he had first thought.

Milliara raised her hand again, this time to close the rift. They watched in silence as the tear shuddered and collapsed with a wave of air pressure.

"Well," Vivienne said, brushing bits of demon ash frm her robes. "It's good to know that I haven't gone rusty. Marvellous shooting, Baron Richelieu," she added, heading back towards the path. Cullen turned his eyes to Milliara, who was rummaging through the ashes of the terror they had killed. Covered in blood and ashes, he was certain that he had never seen anyone so...

"We should get back," the Baron said. "Nils was not pleased to be left with Joce."


End file.
